


time on my hands (could be time spent with you)

by thedoubteriswise



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, Civil War Team Captain America, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Sharing a Bed, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, cuddly sex, everybody needs a break, repressed tenderness, wholesome farm labor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-26 14:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15665424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedoubteriswise/pseuds/thedoubteriswise
Summary: "You doing okay, kid?”Steve releases a breath, deciding how honest he wants to be. No point in lying. No point in telling the truth, either. "Glad to see you.""That’s not what I asked, but same to you, punk."





	time on my hands (could be time spent with you)

There’s no reason to be nervous. Steve’s just going to go see his best friend. This is Bucky, for God's sake, what could there possibly be to be nervous about? It's only been a little over a month since Bucky went under. He'd practically seen him yesterday.

A month. It feels longer than that. Uncertainty and want have a way of stretching the days until they feel like years.

Steve's heart is pounding. He decides he isn't going to be weird or make a big deal about it. It's only Bucky, there’s no need to slobber all over him.

The hallway seems longer and narrower than he remembers. He realizes with a jolt that the woman escorting him has spoken.

"Sorry, what?"

"In here." She gestures to a doorway he nearly missed while he was trying to talk himself into behaving normally.

"Right, yes. Sorry."

She gives him a look that conveys something between pity and amusement. Steve always feels a bit graceless and silly in Wakanda, like a clumsy child trying to look grown up in a crowd of impossibly elegant adults. The woman passes the beads on her left wrist over a nearly-invisible lock and the door slips open with a soft hiss.

He follows her into the lab and his heart flips at the sight of the cryo tube. A cluster of medical technicians bustles around, conversing in isiXhosa and fiddling with gadgets that make the Stark R&D lab look medieval. There's a thick haze of frost under the glass of the cryo tube, but Bucky's figure is visible beneath. Steve feels like he and Bucky are a pair of magnets, the pull between them growing stronger as he moves closer. He feels pathetic for how much he wants to press himself to the glass. His attempts to not be weird are failing.

A woman he assumes is a doctor approaches and greets him in isiXhosa. He responds in kind, though a polite greeting is about all he knows so far. She continues explaining... something, gesturing at Bucky. He turns to the guard who brought him in for help.

"She says that they have raised his internal temperature above freezing and are warming him to a normal temperature. He will be conscious in a few minutes, and then they can remove him. He will still feel very cold, but it will be safe to let him out and warm him naturally. She also says he may be disoriented when he wakes."

"Oh. Is it okay for me to be here when he gets out? I don't want to be underfoot or anything--”

"Of course," the guard translates for the doctor. "Come this way."

He watches the cryo tube, scratching nervously at his beard. A few minutes later, the glass starts to clear and Bucky turns his head just slightly. Steve thinks his heart might beat itself to death.

The tube opens and Steve has to hold himself back. He wants to bolt toward Bucky and cling. There was a time when Bucky would have let him - he practically crushed Steve's rib cage when he came to meet him at the station after Bucky returned from basic training. Steve's chest hurts thinking about it now, both a memory and a wish. The distance between the baby-faced soldier who threw his arms around Steve in the middle of Grand Central Station and the still, sullen man who barely said a word to him during an eight hour flight to Siberia feels impossibly vast.

The technicians help Bucky down from the tube, very nearly carrying him. He looks sleepy and dazed, stumbling over his feet as they guide him to a padded gurney which is floating with no apparent means of support a few yards away. Steve measures his breaths and walks over to meet them. Now that he's conscious, Bucky is shivering violently from the cold and seems to have gained enough awareness to be afraid of what they might do to him now that he's up.

"Buck?"

Bucky immediately follows the sound of Steve's voice, glazed eyes searching the room. "Steve?"

"Hey pal."

Bucky's shoulders slump with relief, and Steve’s throat prickles.

One of the staff moves toward Bucky with a heated blanket, but stops when he tenses again at her approach. She's young and sweet-faced, probably around Wanda's age and about half his size, but soft-looking people are often perfectly capable of flaying you alive. Bucky knows this better than most.

The young woman seems to understand and offers the blanket to Steve instead. He takes it, trying to convey apology and thanks. He moves carefully toward the gurney and gently wraps the blanket around Bucky's shoulders. Bucky lets out a groan at the warmth and slouches forward, resting his head against Steve's chest. Oh.

Forget not clinging; Steve's going to cling and that's just all there is to it. The relief of looping his arms around Bucky's shoulders and resting his cheek on his head drowns out every sliver of hesitation, and if anyone asks, Bucky started it.

"Fuck, I hate this part. Feels like having the flu," Bucky murmurs into Steve's shirt. He’s trembling beneath the blanket. "You know when you're weak and shaky and not quite sick enough to actually throw up, and you can't get warm?"

"Yeah," Steve whispers. His hands have decided to pull Bucky closer and slide up and down his back. Awfully rude of them to make that decision without Steve’s input. "I'm an expert on that part."

Bucky hums in agreement. "How long was I under?"

"Only about a month."

"Did I miss anything?"

"Nothing good."

"What’s that mean?"

"Means reading the news is enough to send a guy screaming to the funny farm, but I guess that's not too unusual."

He huffs softly, not quite a laugh. His hand is still in his lap, but he rocks his forehead against Steve's chest. "You doing okay, kid?”

Steve releases a breath, deciding how honest he wants to be. No point in lying. No point in telling the truth, either. "Glad to see you."

"That’s not what I asked, but same to you, punk." He raises his head and looks at Steve carefully, searching for whatever Steve’s not telling him. Steve leans back to let him look, leaving his hands on Bucky's shoulders. "You look okay," Bucky says. "'Cept for that thing on your face, what the hell is that?"

Steve instinctively puts a hand to his chin, running his fingers through the coarse hair. "Oh. Kinda stopped bothering to shave. Apparently beards are fashionable again, and this time I can actually grow one. Not a fan?"

"Oh no, the beard's fine, I mean this," Bucky reaches up to flick Steve's nose. "Jesus H. Christ, who do we have to blame for that?"

Steve looks offended. "Blame?"

"Yeah, I know your ma didn't do that to you, she was a dime. Whose fault is that thing?"

Steve gives him an incredulous look. "Probably the guy who swore up and down he could set a broken nose and that we didn't need to see a doctor about it."

"Really? It's his fault?"

“Pretty sure.”

"Not the guy who let a thirteen-year-old set his nose?"

"Fuck you," Steve snickers and shoves at Bucky's shoulder hard enough to knock him over and jostle the gurney slightly. Bucky’s laughter skitters over him like sunlight cutting through frozen air.

"Oh my God, call the press! Did you see that, everyone?” Bucky pulls a scandalized face as he rights himself. “Captain America just attacked a one-armed man! Why do you hate the disabled, Cap?"

“I only hate you, you shit,” Steve grins.

“That make me special?”

Yes, it does. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself, jerk.”

Bucky gently butts his head against Steve’s solar plexus. It hits him like a kiss.

 

***

 

Steve’s not sure what Shuri did while Bucky was under - something about removing the “trigger” from HYDRA’s trigger phrase. Steve thinks he’d need a few PhDs to understand what she actually said, but any way they try the words, Bucky seems to be clean. His shoulders hunch and his spine goes stiff as a length of rebar, anxiety freezing his muscles solid, but he’s still Bucky after Steve gets to “freight car.” Shuri says they still have some work to do and rattles off a list of ideas for how they might adapt the process to relieve symptoms of PTSD, but Bucky starts to look overwhelmed and Steve decides it’s time to call it a day.

He gets two days with Bucky before Sam calls with a job. A team of private mercs is trying to track Wanda’s energy signature in the hope of finding the Avengers and turning them in for a reward. This would be enough reason for Steve to return, but it turns out they’re also ex-HYDRA and have been racking up an impressive body count recently, which according to Sam is a good reason to deal with them permanently. Steve is in full agreement, even if the the desperate, greedy thing that eats at his chest whenever he’s away from Bucky complains bitterly about the idea of leaving.

“I should go with you.”

Steve shakes his head and tries for levity. “No way, Shuri’s having way too much fun. I’m not risking whatever she’d do to me if I stole you. It’s a milk run anyway; I can’t imagine it’ll take more than a couple days.”

“I don’t like it.”

“It’ll be fine. Not that I don’t appreciate having you on my team, but I am actually capable of doing my job when you’re not around.”

Bucky suddenly looks miserable. “I know that,” he mumbles. Steve’s stomach sloshes into his boots. Great job, Rogers.

“Hey,” Steve says weakly, fumbling for a way to fix it. “Don’t. I just mean you’re in the med tent for now, okay? Don’t go back before you’re healed up.”

“I’ve been in the med tent for two years letting you get kicked around without me because I’m a twitchy fuckup who’s scared of his own shadow. We just got rid of my last excuse. I can’t justify hiding in my room anymore.”

Steve’s voice feels too sharp when he speaks. “You are not a twitchy fuckup, you’re -- fuck’s sake, Bucky.” He sighs harshly. “It’s not your job to do this shit forever. You can be done. And anyway, taking time to get better after you get hurt isn’t a goddamn excuse.”

Bucky’s expression shifts from dejected to incredulous. “Hell of a thing for you to say.”

Steve stares back, frustrated. “Stop it. We’re not talking about me.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and graciously turns back to the topic at hand. “Two years is a long time on leave.”

“Seventy years is a long time to get tortured and brainwashed.”

“It was only sixty-nine,” Bucky glares, but Steve can see him relenting. “Fine. Do something for me, though.”

“What?”

“Come back here when you’re done.”

Steve looks confused. “Of course.”

“Good.”

“Where else would I go?”

“Another shitshow, I assume.”

“I mean, there might be other stuff--”

“I mean it, Steve.”

“I can’t not do my job.”

“You need leave just as bad as I do.”

Steve goes silent, feeling wrongfooted. “I’m fine, Bucky.”

“Save the bullshit for your other friends.”

Steve feels himself staring dumbly, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. His first instinct is to get angry, but he grudgingly realizes that it’s only because he’s sick of Bucky being right. “I don’t think they believe it either,” he admits. Vulnerability feels like something rotten inside him, filthy bandages cut away to reveal necrotic wounds.

Bucky smiles, honest and sweet and distracting. Steve paid dearly for that smile, but it sure is a good one. “Yeah, but they’re usually polite enough to fake it. The girls, anyway. Sam’s an asshole.”

“Speaking of saving the bullshit.”

“What?”

“Still pretending you don’t like Sam?”

“I don’t like Sam.”

“Okay, pal.”

“He thinks he’s _so_ smart.”

“He _is_ so smart, and he’s got your number, and you hate it. But you like him.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and mocks Steve in a squeaky voice until Steve licks a finger and sticks it in Bucky’s ear, earning himself an indignant squawk and a sharp jab in the side.

Steve flies to Portugal the next morning. He wishes like hell he had hugged Bucky before leaving.

 

***

 

The rogue HYDRA team required slightly more legwork and a lot more C4 than Steve had expected, but at least it’s over now. He’s holed up in a crummy hotel in Lisbon with Sam, Nat, and Wanda. They had cased the suite repeatedly and hooked up their portable alarm system, and Steve made sure everyone else got a chance to clean and wrap their (thankfully minor) injuries. He feels like he has sandbags strapped to his arms and legs. This was far from the hardest mission he’s had to run, even just in the last few months, but he feels drained. He thought he'd be back in Wakanda by now. The fact that he’s not makes him feel unexpectedly frayed.

Oh hell, Sam’s been talking, hasn't he?

“Sorry, what?”

Sam looks exasperated. “Where did I lose you?”

Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Where did you start?”

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. “Nevermind. Go take a shower, Spaceman Steve. You smell like shoes.”

“Your shoes, maybe.”

“Man, fuck off. See if I bring you any food.”

“Kidding. Your shoes are odorless. Sometimes they even smell like lavender or freshly baked cookies.”

“Nope, it's too late. Get your own dinner.”

“You have the nicest smelling feet on earth.”

“Now it’s getting weird.”

“Really, they’re miraculous.”

“I don’t wanna hear about your kinks.”

Sam promises Steve triple portions on his way out the door.

Wanda and Nat are having a quiet conversation and Natasha is doing something that looks complicated with Wanda’s freshly-washed hair. Until recently they hadn’t had much to do with one another, but the whole mess with the Accords seems to have brought them closer. Steve feels unaccountably relieved for both of them.

“If no one else needs the bathroom, I’m hitting the shower.”

“Don’t fall and break a hip, grandpa,” Wanda calls after him. Her tone is flat; she’s clearly wiped out and her heart’s not in it, but he figures it’s the thought that counts and he and flips her off to be polite.

The shower is small and the handle needs to be jiggled hard to start, but at least it doesn’t have one of those goddamned low-flow showerheads that Steve despises. Peeling his grimy tac gear off feels pretty wonderful, and his subconscious starts giving him permission to relax a little. The threat is eliminated, they’re in a safe location, Nat and Wanda are just outside and within reach of weapons, and they’re watching Sam’s GPS so that if he manages to get into trouble between here and the takeaway place six blocks from the hotel, they’ll know immediately. Tomorrow - no, tonight - he’ll put in a call to T’Challa to check on Bucky. Everything is fine.

He’s no longer covered in a dead person’s blood, so he might even say that things are better than fine. His mind drifts. There is only the static hiss of the shower and the sound of Natasha’s low, woodsmoke voice, broken occasionally by the songbird chirp of Wanda’s.

Suddenly, there’s a rush of water through pipes, the loud clunk of old metal contracting in the wall next to him (he knows that someone flushed a toilet next door, that’s all, it’s an old building, the plumbing is ancient--)

The water abruptly runs ice cold, slaps against him hard and fast and immediate and he feels the plane tilting.

_I’m in the shower, I’m not on a plane_

He is on a plane. The metal creaks and bangs and gives against the force of the ocean, solid as concrete on impact, and he is so cold, he can’t feel his toes, or his face--

_Not again, not again, I did this once I don’t want to do it again_

His lungs seize and his vision blurs around the edges--

_No please not again_

_Why didn’t I hug Bucky goodbye_

He can see the off-white tiles moving toward his face, but he knows he’s on a plane. He knows he’s on a plane when he falls hard against the shower wall, unable to draw a breath. He’s so cold, and there’s a loud metallic creak, and it’s not the plumbing, it’s the distant shearing of a metal wing cleaving off into the frigid water. He he’s about to drown and freeze and lose everything again when his knees crack against the porcelain, and when he hears voices moving toward him, knuckles pounding hard against a door and the old knob twisting open, he knows he’s hallucinating. Someone is shouting over the dying radio. Natasha isn’t calling his name and wrenching the water off, because he’s on a plane and he’s drowning and she’s not there. There are no hands on his bare shoulders, Natasha is not looping her arms under his to make him stand. He’s sinking into the unimaginable cold of the Arctic Ocean, and he’s dying again. The only thing different this time is the soft tendril of red light that fills his head like gentle fingers running through his hair right before he falls unconscious. He doesn’t remember that from before.

 

***

 

The others are hesitant to let him fly himself back to Wakanda and threaten to make him stay in Lisbon with them for another day or two, though they all know it’s best if they avoid hanging around in one place for too long. Steve frantically tries to look functional. He’s desperate to leave, although at the moment he’s not sure whether that’s more because he wants to see Bucky or because he’s mortified that Nat and Wanda had to rescue him from the shower yesterday. He tried to apologize to Nat - a lady shouldn’t have to haul a naked, crying man twice her size out of a bathtub at eight o’clock on a Wednesday night, for God’s sake - but she just kissed his cheek and told him not to be stupid.

Anyway, regardless of the deepening crease in Sam’s forehead, Steve’s flying back this afternoon.

 

***

 

“You know, I’m not saying that having a fit in a bathtub isn’t a way to get a pretty girl in the shower with you, I’m just not convinced it’s the _best_ way.”

Good fucking god, news travels fast.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Yet here we are.”

“How the hell did you even hear about this?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, but gives Steve a look he must have learned from one of their mothers.

“It was no big deal. Just one of those things, y’know?”

“Yeah.”

They’re sitting by the lake that provides water for the nearby farms, including Bucky’s. The air is warm and there’s a drowsy breeze that smells of cut hay and soft earth. The hazy evening light makes the water glow. Bucky seems marginally more relaxed than the last time Steve saw him, but he’d brushed off Steve’s questions about his well-being in favor of hassling Steve about his own problems. Typical.

“So you're a goat farmer now, huh?”

Bucky snorts. “Shuri’s idea. Something about fresh air and nature or whatever.”

“She know what a hopeless city slicker you are?”

“She’s also a hopeless city slicker, so I don't think it occurred to her that that might present a problem.” Bucky looks mildly distraught. “D’you know how fast goats are? I didn't. They're ornery as shit, too, and a hell of a lot smarter than they look. It's like having a whole herd of you.”

“I like to think I have some advantages over the goats.”

“True, you are a tiny bit less ugly.”

“I was gonna say sometimes I take out the trash and shine your shoes, but consider all offers to do that in the future rescinded.”

Bucky pouts and nudges against Steve’s shoulder. “Aw, you don’t mean that, sweetheart.”

Steve hates, hates, hates himself for the prickling pleasure that spreads under his skin when Bucky calls him names like that. He’s just kidding, though, trying to get Steve to laugh and call him an asshole. Steve does that, because it only seems fair to give Bucky what he wants after he’s offered Steve something as good as “sweetheart.” He would have played along for “honey” or even “doll.” He’s not picky.

Bucky falls back into the grass and lets out a deep sigh. Steve studies him for a long time, slowly mapping his face (open and calm, but with dark circles under his eyes), his wild hair (clean, but messy), his soft red robe, a blue shawl draped to hide his missing arm, his bare feet.

“Buck?”

“Hm.” He’s started to doze.

Steve hesitates. “Really though, are you… I don’t know. Are you okay?”

Bucky opens his eyes and stares at Steve. “Are _you_ okay?”

God, he’s a pain in the ass. “Can you just answer the damn question?”

“Sure. You’re the one still out getting shot at, though, not me. Are you okay?”

“Oh, is that what this is?” Steve grumbles.

“What what is?”

“We’re not allowed to talk about you until we’ve talked about me, is that it?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow and says nothing.

He’s more angry at himself for snapping than he is at Bucky for asking.“No, I’m not fucking okay. I haven’t been okay since 1945. There’s definitely a twitchy fuckup afraid of his own shadow sitting here, but it’s not you. Happy?”

“No, I’m not,” Bucky says softly, his voice devoid of anger or heat, “but thanks for skipping the usual piss-poor attempt at lying.” He reaches up, almost absent-minded, and gently smooths his hand over Steve’s back. The tension vanishes in an instant, Steve’s anger drifting away in the breeze.

“Sorry.” His voice comes out gritty.

Bucky wordlessly grabs the back of his shirt and gently tugs him down to lie in the grass. Steve feels every millimeter of the four inch space between his shoulder and Bucky’s. They’re quiet for a few moments before Steve tries again.

“Buck--”

“I’m not okay.”

“Oh.”

“But I think I will be,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Which doesn’t sound like much, but believe me when I say it’s a big improvement.”

Steve nods hard, not looking at Bucky.

Across the water, Steve can hear children laughing. The goats bleat irritably while trying to eat the fence posts in their pen. The grass tickles gently against his skin and he can hear birds he’s never seen before calling overhead. Bucky is halfheartedly prodding at him and fiddling with the fingers of Steve’s left hand as though it’s a mildly interesting inanimate object. He’s relieved that Bucky’s initially hesitant attitude toward touching has dissolved and that he’s gone back to treating Steve’s body as an extension of his own. Steve lived for decades on Bucky’s strange nudges, pokes, and squeezes. He hadn’t realized how starved he was until he got them back.

The ice feels distant and unreal, like a memory of someone else’s dream told to him at breakfast the next morning. He wonders cautiously if maybe he’ll be okay too.

 

***

 

They sleep sprawled on the pallet in Bucky’s hut. It’s a compromise between sleeping on the floor and sleeping on a marshmallow mattress, so as far as Steve’s concerned, it’s perfect. He knows that Bucky sometimes talks and thrashes in his sleep now, and he’s not sure he’ll do so well himself, but to his surprise they both end up sleeping like the dead the whole night. He wakes with Bucky’s face mashed into his side and can’t bring himself to move until Bucky rolls over on his own. He’s proud of himself for keeping his hands out of Bucky’s hair even though he knows how soft it is. He doesn’t even mind getting drooled on.

Bucky wakes with a gasp and sits up suddenly, eyes wild. Steve follows him, a spike of worry in his throat.

“Buck? You okay?”

Bucky looks disoriented. “Fuck. Shit.”

“Bucky, you’re fine.” Steve tries to speak evenly and reaches for him, afraid to startle him.

“What? No, the fucking…” Bucky untangles himself from the covers, managing to kick and elbow Steve several times before launching himself off the pallet. He stumbles around the hut frantically.

“Buck? Hey, it’s okay.” Shit, he’s not calming down. Steve really does not want to have to subdue him by force, but there are civilians here.

“The motherfucking goats!”

What.

“What?”

“God damn piece of shit animals. Never have goats, Steve!” He skids out the door, apparently indifferent to the fact that he’s still in his underwear.

Steve clambers out of the wreck of bedding and pokes his head outside. Bucky is chasing an extremely smug-looking billy goat, who Steve swears was locked in the pen last night. In addition to being outsmarted by a farm animal, he’s also loudly apologizing in very poor isiXhosa to the neighbor, whether for his own nudity or for the fact that his goat was eating the neighbor’s door curtain, Steve’s not sure.

Steve is barely breathing with how hard he’s laughing.

“Shut the hell up and help me, you useless sack of shit!”

Steve laughs harder.

“I should have let Bobby Wolowitz kill you that time in the 5th grade!”

At this point, the goat runs up a tree, realizes its mistake, and complains loudly about its location. Steve pulls himself together and climbs the tree, because carrying an angry goat and climbing back down without falling is a task that requires more than one arm. Upon putting the goat down, he’s immediately headbutted in the shins for his trouble. Bucky is an asshole and laughs at him. Steve notices that they’ve drawn an audience (the neighbor with the chewed curtain seems to think it was worth it for the entertainment), and then notices that they’re both still in their skivvies.

It’s the best morning he’s had in years.

 

***

 

There’s trouble in Iran a few days later, and Steve follows Natasha’s call. Bucky looks unhappy again, but this time Steve squeezes him long and hard before he gets on the plane. Bucky hugs back fiercely, and there’s something searching in the way his gaze traces Steve’s face that makes it even harder to leave.

Still, it’s good to see his friends. He feels bad for not being with them all the time, seeing as how they’re fugitives because of him. Every time he mentions this, they fervently assure him that they’re actually fugitives because Secretary Ross is a lump of shower drain slime pretending to be a human being and that he’s right to be with Bucky as often as he can. Steve’s _mostly_ sure he’s imagining Sam’s hesitation about the second thing.

Natasha has followed leads gathered during the Lisbon case to a splinter group of researchers trying to develop an Iron Man suit. So far they seem to be up to Justin Hammer’s standards - it’s not a high bar, but it’s still concerning. The real issue is that they’re now approaching buyers in Syria, which means that waiting to see if they blow themselves up without any help is no longer an option.

The research facility is located in an old warehouse. It would be easy to enter by force - it’s a bit of a dump, and there are too many doors and windows for it to be easily defensible - but it’s a large and complex building. Finding the people they’re looking for could take a long time, and they can’t risk letting anyone escape with the research. What’s worse is that the building is surrounded by potential witnesses as well as potential collateral damage. Steve insists on few of the former and none of the latter, which means they’ll have to attempt a stealthier approach. It’s times like these that Steve really misses having a well-funded intelligence agency backing him up. This task would have been embarrassingly easy if they hadn’t been doing it illegally.

“Why do these assholes always have to put their super secret villain lair near a goddamn school?” Sam grumbles over the comms.

“They’re not stupid.” Natasha is making her way toward the backstreet where there’s an unguarded loading dock. “If I was a Nazi weapons dealer and didn’t want the good guys blowing up my lab, I’d probably use kids as human shields too.”

Wanda is quietly wandering past the building dressed in street clothes. Every passerby that comes within six feet of her seems to realize that they left something important behind and go back for it. None of them remember the wisps of red light they saw just before they missed their wallet or keys.

“Back door’s open,” Natasha murmurs.

“I’m right behind you.” Steve strolls into a connecting alleyway and ducks through a half-demolished building, hunching his shoulders and shortening his steps like Natasha taught him. “Sam, how’s Wanda doing? Anybody looking suspicious?”

Sam is perched behind an air conditioner on a nearby roof. “Nah, she’s doing great. Side note, Wanda, your powers are extremely creepy, just so you know.”

“Yesterday I think I made a small black hole by imploding some leftover falafel.”

“Thanks, that’s horrible.”

Steve grins, but keeps his voice firm. “Focus up, this is the hard part. Nat, it’s me on your five o’clock, don’t shoot me.”

“Stay where you are.”

“Cameras?”

“Not as many as they should have, but yes.” She makes a small, frustrated noise. “Shit, they have someone watching these real time. My bad, I could have sworn they were unmonitored.”

“Nat.”

“I know. Any way we can pull Wanda from what she’s doing?”

“Why?”

“I can see the guys watching the camera feed and it wouldn’t be hard to take them out, but I’m not sure I can do it undetected unless I kill them. This building is a heap of shit and someone’ll hear me.”

He sighs. “I hate to say this, but it’s HYDRA. I’m not too worried about being polite.”

“Yeah, well, it turns out these are just regular guys.”

“What do you mean?”

“The security crew are definitely not HYDRA, that’s why I’m surprised they’re here. These are normal guys that answered a help wanted ad or something. I strongly doubt they know who they work for.”

Steve’s sincerely proud of Natasha for caring about that, but. “Damn it. Okay, Wanda, how’s the street?”

“Empty as it’s going to get.”

“Right. See that photocopy shop?”

“Mm.”

“Go around the corner there and then turn down the alley, it’ll take you to where Natasha is. Nat, any movement?”

“From these two? Probably not for the last hour.”

“Good, stay put. Sam, move in.”

“Got it.”

A few minutes later, Steve sees Wanda unobtrusively making her way toward them when he hears an indistinct male voice crackling weakly over the comms. It’s not Sam.

“Anybody else getting comm interference?”

“I thought I was hearing things.” Wanda says. “That shouldn’t happen, right?”

“Not on these,” Sam replies, confused.

Silence.

The staticky voice comes to life again.

“... Wilson, is that you?”

There’s a streak of red and gold in the sky over the warehouse, and Steve’s blood runs ice cold. Fuck, he’s an idiot. Of course Tony would know someone was trying for Iron Man copies.

Steve lowers his voice and speaks sharply, trying to disguise his usual tone a bit. “We’re done. Scatter. He has backup, he’ll take care of it.”

“Who’s speaking?” Tony responds, agitated. Steve thanks God for the shitty reception; if Tony knows it’s Steve, he’s not showing it.

“Meet at the backup checkpoint. Take a long route. Destroy your comms,” Steve growls before ripping his out and crushing it under his heel. He briefly considers running for Natasha - if Tony comes back this way, she’ll be right in his line of sight, and Steve knows he’ll recognize her - but realizes she’s better off without his clumsy attempts at help. He moves as slowly as he can back toward the main street. He desperately hopes Sam is out of the way. If he’s still on a rooftop, he’ll be very visible.

He tries not to think about who might be watching Tony’s movements now that he’s operating under the Accords. He tries not to think about the metallic thud of Tony’s boot against Bucky’s skull. Most of all, he tries not to think about the fact that Tony scares him more than HYDRA.

 

***

 

Four hours later, they’re hiding out in a village about two hours outside of Tehran. Sam’s pretty sure, based on the few signs he’s seen, that it’s called something like “Dalestan,” but he never really learned Persian, just Pashto, so he could be off by a vowel or two.

They’ve found an abandoned house on the edge of the village and are testing the limits of some half-rotted wooden chairs inside. The battered pickup truck they used to get here is parked behind some dead shrubs in a nearby gully, and they’ve ruthlessly destroyed anything that could be used to track them. Their old Avengers-issue gear had been the best option available up until now, but even with the embedded tracking devices ripped out, it’s clear that they’re no longer safe.

Natasha sighs. “Not to play devil’s advocate after we just went through all that, but--”

“No,” Sam and Wanda respond in unison.

“Hey, I get that this is a bad situation, I’m just saying, Tony’s not the creature from the black lagoon. I’m not sure we need to be avoiding him this hard.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Wanda sighs, rubbing her neck unconsciously.

“I know. But he was our friend a couple months ago, I don’t think he’s out for blood.”

“Yeah, I don’t need friends who get me thrown in superhero jail.” Sam pauses, “Except Steve, I guess.”

Steve is slumped against the wall, sitting on a plastic milk crate. His head is throbbing. “Thanks, pal.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“My point,” Natasha continues, “Is that I don’t think he’ll send in the cavalry the second he spots us. Steve, you gave him that burner phone, and he’s made no attempt to contact you. If he were trying to ‘catch’ us, he’d have an easy way to do it.”

Steve sighs. “Look, I’m not keeping us hidden because I think Tony’s out to get us. In spite of everything, he does care about you guys.”

“He’s got a funny way of showing it,” Sam says.

“I know. Look, Tony might be one of the smartest people in the world, but he’s an idiot, in some ways. He’s…” Steve waves a hand vaguely.

“What?”

“Well. Rich, you know? Normally nobody he knows ends up in any kind of prison, let alone a secret one. When he helped catch you guys, it didn’t occur to him that it would end with you getting beat to hell and Wanda wearing a shock collar. That’s not how the world works in Tony’s head.”

“So you’re saying we should trust him and that it’s fine and dandy for him to know where we are because, what, he’s hopelessly naive?” Sam scoffs.

“Hell no. We still need to stay off his radar, I'm just saying that I don't think Tony himself is a threat, at least not for you three.” Steve sits up, rubbing his face. “Natasha’s right, he’s not necessarily the bad guy. I trust him not to tattle if he finds us. The problem is that if he knows where we are, he may not _have_ to tattle.”

Natasha sighs, letting her head fall back against a crumbling door jamb. “That’s true. He’s fine at short-term secrets, but who knows how long we’ll have to keep this up. I’m not putting money on Tony being able to protect us if this becomes a ‘years’ thing.”

They’re all quiet, kicking at the dust on the floor, chewing their nails. No one wants to think about the possibility of it being a “years” thing.

“What do you mean, for us three?” Wanda asks suddenly.

“Hm?”

“You said you weren’t worried about Tony, at least not for us.”

Steve shifts, fidgets. “I think we’re okay, but until I’m sure, he can’t know where I am.”

“Honey, I know Siberia was bad, but he’s calmed down by now,” Natasha says gently.

“No, I know, I’m not worried about me. I--” he clears his throat. “I don’t want to lead him to Bucky.”

“Hey,” Sam’s voice has softened. “Wakanda’s security makes Fort Knox look like some kid’s treehouse with a ‘keep out’ sign on it. Your boy’s safe.”

“Cold-blooded revenge isn’t Tony’s style,” Natasha adds. “I really don’t think he’d hunt Barnes down any more than he’d go after us.”

Steve has spent so long thinking of himself as a courageous person, allowing for this one small thing he can feel proud of. He’s always worried that cowardice might sneak up on him, though; that someday he’d start jumping at phantoms without knowing he was doing it. He shouldn’t have been concerned about that, as it turns out - he knows damn well he’s being a coward.

“Sure,” He nods, trying to sound unaffected. “No reason to risk creating a hassle for T’Challa after he’s been so accommodating, though.”

“Fair point,” Sam concedes. Nat and Wanda murmur in agreement.

Steve knows they’re just being nice. It would be a very fair point if it was anything more than an excuse.

The image of Bucky seeping blood and gasping on the concrete floor stabs at his mind when he closes his eyes. Bucky doesn’t remember Steve carrying him to the quinjet or talking to T’Challa. His memories begin when they were already in the air, after he had scared Steve half to death by suddenly going very sweaty and cold, passing out for a few seconds, and then waking up to vomit repeatedly. He was rattled and forgetful for days afterward, sleeping so deeply that Steve kept nervously checking his pulse. He knows that what happened in Siberia probably won’t happen again, but there’s still a nagging, fearful voice in his head that tells him it’s not worth taking any chances.

 

***

 

They make their way to a small airport about an hour away and offer an exorbitant amount of cash to a pilot in exchange for an off-the-books lift to Cairo. Natasha heads west from there. She tries to make it sound like she’s doing something mysterious, but Steve suspects she’s going to Iowa to see Clint’s kids before they grow too much. Sam and Wanda decide to stick together for the time being and aim for a safehouse in Madrid.

Steve has lost all means of secure communication with Wakanda. He’s been gone for three days longer than planned and has no safe way of telling Bucky he’s alright. Tony and his officially-sanctioned backup destroyed the research facility and everyone inside it (Steve feels slightly sick thinking about the security guards who weren’t HYDRA - they might have lived if he’d gotten _his_ team there a couple hours earlier), and somehow there are rumors floating around that the occupants included some former Avengers. It might be useful for the general public to think he’s dead, but he hopes to God that Bucky either hasn’t heard those rumors or at least doesn’t believe them.

In any case, he’ll have to get home the hard way.

After two weeks of roundabout travel that takes him through five countries, Steve arrives at the Wakandan border on foot. The boundary is invisible, but the hair on his arms stands up in response to the electromagnetic veil which hides the country from the surrounding area. He steps through, silently thanking whatever gods might be listening.

Three minutes later, he’s surrounded by agitated soldiers with very sharp vibranium spears. He’s never been so relieved to have weapons pointed at him.

He raises his hands in surrender. “I know, I’m sorry to invite myself in like this. I lost my phone.”

He lets himself be arrested and brought to the city, and eventually someone figures out who he is and contacts the palace. T’Challa surprises the hell out of the guard patrol by showing up in person and laughing out loud when he sees Steve.

“Bast help you Captain, that was a dangerous way to get into the city.”

Steve smiles sheepishly. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t have much of a choice. The last few weeks didn’t go as planned.”

“I’m relieved the rumors you had been killed were false. Are your friends safe?”

“Yeah, to the best of my knowledge, they’re just fine.” He shuffles anxiously. “Is Bucky okay?”

The look on T’Challa’s face is not promising.

 

***

 

“You absolute piece of shit. You fucking bastard.”

Steve may not know much about much, but he’ll take credit for predicting this exact reaction. It’s comforting, really.

“Hey Buck.” He knows the smile on his face is inappropriate given the situation, but he can’t help it. God, he missed Bucky.

“‘Hey Buck?’ Don’t ‘Hey Buck’ me, you asshole, I should beat the absolute shit outta you. Where the hell were you?”

“Avoiding getting arrested and traveling here from Tehran with no resources.”

“Oh, well, good for you. You couldn’t have called? Sent a goddamn carrier pigeon? Smoke signals? Nothing?”

“I had to get rid of my phone, I--”

“I was losing my fucking mind!” Bucky’s voice cracks and Steve suddenly realizes how tired he looks.

“Hey, I… Bucky, I’m sorry--”

“I can’t take this, I really can’t, Steve. If you’re doing this stupid bullshit you have to take me with you. I’ll get a new arm, I’ll--”

“Hey, no, come on--”

“You can’t just disappear! You can’t do that to me.”

“I won’t!” Shit, he’s yelling. Bucky goes very quiet.

Steve takes a deep breath. Bucky looks miserable and sad and like he can’t decide whether to hug Steve or hit him, so Steve chooses for him.

“I’m really sorry,” He murmurs into Bucky’s hair. “If I could’ve contacted you safely, I would’ve. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yeah, you never do,” Bucky grumbles. His arm is looped tightly around Steve’s waist.

“I never do.” He can tell Bucky’s gotten a little weepy. His own eyes are stinging, and he finds himself being too honest. “I missed you real bad.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky replies, squeezing Steve tighter.

“I even missed your shitty attitude.”

“Where the fuck were you.”

“’M sorry. I’m here now. All in one piece, even.”

He wishes he could hold Bucky like this even when neither one of them is upset, but he’ll take what he can get.

 

***

 

Steve was six years old when he met Bucky. Bucky taught him how to throw a punch, how to whistle, and what it meant to have butterflies in your stomach. Years passed, but the butterflies never flew away. Every time Bucky invented a game where they had to hold hands, Steve felt like he was floating. Sometimes Bucky insisted on showing off how strong he was by wrapping his arms around Steve’s middle and hoisting him off the ground, and Steve complained because that was what he was supposed to do, but secretly he felt so dizzy and warm he thought he must be dreaming.

During the summer of ‘32, Bucky hit a growth spurt and his voice finally stopped doing stupid things. His baby fat melted off and he got muscles. His awkward frame rearranged itself into something strong and graceful, like the Greek sculptures of beautiful boys Steve had seen in library books. Suddenly, Steve realized that maybe not everyone felt like this about their friends. The light, fluttery sensation he’d carried with him for the last eight years grew into a stabbing heat that made him feel almost sick. His subconscious appeared to be dedicating all its resources to inventing an endless variety of mortifying fantasies, often involving things Steve wasn’t sure were even possible in real life. He hated himself for this, obviously, but he wasn’t quite surprised. He lived in a body that seemed to be made up of more wrong things than right things, so what was one more broken part?

Regardless, it was excruciating. Sleep wasn’t _bad_ , exactly, but it was messy, and it usually told him things about himself he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Looking Bucky in the eye the next day was a challenge, too. How was he supposed to lie next to him on the living room floor and listen to the ball game like everything was normal? Steve loved baseball, but it would have to get a lot more exciting if it wanted to compete for his attention against that soft-looking spot behind Bucky’s ear.

Steve had resigned himself to his fate after about a year of this, but of course, this was when Bucky had to go and get an idea in his stupid head. He had no clue what prompted it, but one day while they were flopped sideways on Steve’s bed, their legs hanging over the side, Bucky asked him if he ever touched himself.

Steve was already panicking before Bucky even got to the end of the sentence, because he only ever asked things like that as a formality. He already knew the answer; he just wanted Steve to say it, for some godforsaken reason. Steve remained silent for a beat too long, which was his first mistake.

“Oh, come on, I know you do it.”

“You don’t know your ass from your elbow.”

“But I know you. You do it; everybody does it.”

“If you’re so sure, why bother asking?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and accused him of being a wet blanket for the millionth time. Then Steve made his second mistake.

“Why, do _you_ do it?”

Bucky, strangely, turned bright red. Bucky wasn’t usually much of a blusher, and he’d been the one to bring it up, so this was a confusing reaction.

“I just said everybody does it, didn’t I?” Bucky said. His voice was strained and he refused to meet Steve’s eye.

Steve felt himself tipping over some kind of cliff. Maybe it was the fact that Bucky was now the one caught off balance, or maybe it was because something in the dark recesses of Steve’s brain interpreted the situation as an opportunity, but even though Bucky looked nervous as hell and probably would have let him change the subject, Steve pressed on.

“How often?”

Bucky blushed even harder and muttered something inaudible. Steve was going to hell for enjoying this.

“What was that?”

“I dunno."

“What d’ya mean you don’t know? You forget how to count?”

Bucky looked like he wanted the bedspread to swallow him. “Maybe a few times a day,” he mumbled. “But only sometimes! And I’ve heard it’s a lot better if somebody else does it for you. And you don’t need to do it as much,” Bucky babbled, rushing through the words like Steve wouldn’t actually notice any of them if he talked fast enough.

“Who said that?”

“I dunno, Jerry, I guess.”

“Jerry McKinnon? How the hell would he know?”

“He’s got a girl.”

“He does? What, did she hit her head?”

“Probably. The point is, he would know.”

“Too bad for her if he does.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment. Steve thought maybe the conversation was over until Bucky started fidgeting and looking anxious the way he did when he was scared to say what was on his mind and didn’t want you to know it.

“What about you?” He finally asked.

“Huh?”

“How often do you do it?”

Steve shifted uncomfortably. He’d walked right into that one. “Same as you, probably,” he mumbled. His face was on fire.

“Guess we both need to get girls.”

Steve felt something sad and achy twist in his gut. “I guess.”

They lay there silently for a few minutes. Steve's heart was racing and his pants felt stifling. Bucky was still squirming next to him.

“Do you wanna settle down?” Steve griped.

Bucky kicked him lightly in response and did not settle down.

Steve sat up. “I know there's no bedbugs, so quit--”

“Alright, Jesus, relax. I'm just…” he cleared his throat. “Now I'm thinking about it.”

“About what?”

“About. You know.”

It took all Steve's willpower to contain the desperate, screeching laugh that wanted to escape from his throat. Yeah, he knew.

Something must have shown on his face. “Don't give me that look! You're thinking about it too.”

“I am not!”

“Oh yeah?” He glanced at Steve's lap.

“Okay, fine,” Steve snapped. “Shut the hell up. It’s not my fault you had to start bothering me about it.”

Steve thought he heard Bucky take a deep breath just before he got that anxious look again. “If you wanted to… you know… I wouldn't care. Just… if you wanted.”

Steve stared at him blankly for a moment. “What?” Blood was rushing in his ears and he didn't trust himself to have heard that right. “You're sitting right here!”

Bucky refused to look at him. “Yeah, well. Like I said, I kinda want to too.”

Steve would like to say that he tried to refuse, but in fact, he caved like a badly-built mine shaft as soon as the words left Bucky’s mouth.

His worst mistake, though, happened about 45 seconds later when they both had their hands down their pants. To this day, he still can’t believe he did it.

“You said-- you said it's better when somebody else does it for you.”

Bucky stared at him with a stunned look on his face. For a second Steve felt himself drowning in humiliated regret. He tried to force his lust-addled brain to come up with a way to excuse the implication and walk it back when he-- When Bucky. Well. He.

Steve reached over to do the same, feeling delirious.

Bucky was right. It was much, _much_ better when someone else did it.

Thick, slow moments passed afterwards, sweet and soft as caramel. Steve could feel each place where his body rested against Bucky’s, and for a few minutes it seemed as though he would never feel anything but good for the rest of his life.

When he opened his eyes and looked over at Bucky, he felt the sunshine of the past few minutes go cold. Bucky was staring at the ceiling with a poleaxed look that would have been hard to decipher if it hadn’t been for the single tear track that traced his temple.

“Buck?” His voice felt weak and wrong.

“I gotta go.”

“Bucky--”

“I told Becks I’d help her practice for the spelling bee.”

Steve went quiet. His throat seemed to have a slab of marble stuck in it.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah.”

He tried to let him go without another word, but. “Wait--”

Bucky stopped and turned, his face reticent and guilty.

Steve wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. “See you tomorrow?”

Bucky looked relieved. Or disappointed. For once, Steve couldn’t tell, and that scared him as much as anything else. “Yeah, of course.”

The next time they saw one another, they both pretended as hard as they could, and it never came up again outside of Steve’s dreams. Of all the things in his life he’s tried to forget, the hardest is still that moment of pure, satisfied contentment, when he lived in a world where Bucky loved him back.

 

***

 

Steve eases his boots off and savors the feeling of his feet against the earth, wiggling his toes unimpeded. He’s never been a bare feet person before, having lived most of his life in situations where it was vastly preferable not to let your bare skin touch the ground, but most people out here seem to consider shoes optional unless they’re leaving the area immediately surrounding the village. The houses themselves are tiny and spare, Steve realizes, because when you live here, outside becomes your living room.

The sun is sinking, leaving long, thick brushstrokes of golden light and blue shadow across the landscape. The dusty, sharp smell of cookfires and spices rolls between the houses.

“Come on, you smell like a barnyard,” Bucky teases, motioning for Steve to follow him.

“I guess you’d know now.”

“Don’t insult my goats like that, they’re much cleaner than you.”

They make their way to a secluded spot on the lake surrounded by trees and brush. Bucky begins untying his robe. Steve goes to work on the buckles of his filthy tac pants, which he’s barely had a chance to change out of in the last week.

He looks up and sees Bucky fully naked and wandering into the lake. This isn’t the first time Steve has taken a bath out here, but it is the first time Bucky’s been with him. He tries not to stare as he peels off the last of his layers and follows.

The water is deliciously cool, but thankfully not cold. He lets himself float on his back for a few minutes with his eyes closed, listening to the gentle percussion of tiny waves bouncing against the shore. He realizes that Bucky is doing the same thing. He opens his eyes and stares up at the pale sky. There are fine, cloudy streaks that are beginning to change color as the sun sets. Lying here like this, the sky feels impossibly vast, but close enough that he could reach up and trace his finger across its velvet surface. He hears Bucky humming and nearly stops breathing, afraid to break the spell.

Bucky used to hum and whistle constantly when they were kids, and it drove Steve nuts. It wasn’t that he couldn’t carry a tune - he could, and his voice was nice - but rather that he never seemed to stop. Until he was captured. Steve never said anything, but he knew Bucky was different after Azzano, not from the thousand-yard stare or the way it sometimes took him a beat too long to laugh at a joke, but because the constant stream of pop tunes and radio jingles finally went silent.

The clouds overhead are turning a soft, peachy pink. He can feel his fingers starting to prune, and he realizes that Bucky is humming “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” He glances over and finds himself captivated by the swirl of Bucky’s long hair in the water, the rounded muscle of his good shoulder, the dip of his navel and the tiny bump of inviting softness beneath. He feels unbearably tender toward the particular turn of his ankles and the long-healed bullet scar in his hip, wants to kiss the tip of each finger, the vulnerable wrist, his brown nipples pebbling in the cool water, his scruffy cheeks and soft lips.

He turns back to the sky. He breathes deeply and knows that whatever choices he’s made, whatever he’s pushed aside or given up to be here, it was the right decision.

 

***

 

Bucky is chatty as they get ready to go to sleep. Steve expected to be in the doghouse for longer than the 10 minutes it took Bucky to bitch him out in front of all the neighbors (he’s aware that they’re probably everyone’s favorite soap opera by now), so this is a pleasant surprise. He figures they’ll probably lie awake for a couple hours talking the way they always used to, but as soon as his head hits the pillow, he can feel himself nodding off. He’s gotten so used to being exhausted, he no longer notices it until he has an opportunity for some real sleep.

He can’t quite doze off with Bucky anxiously blurting out everything that pops into his head, though. He allows himself a secret smile and enjoys the familiarity of Bucky’s noisy insomnia for a few minutes.

“Buck,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Shhh.” He reaches over to pat whatever part of Bucky is available. Steve’s lying on his side and Bucky’s lying on his back, so that part turns out to be his chest.

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles awkwardly.

“S’okay. Get some sleep, pal.” His hand is absently rubbing gentle circles over Bucky’s stomach. He can feel him take a deep breath. The tension in his core eases gradually and they both drift off.

A few hours later, Steve finds himself awake. Nothing startles him, but he realizes that he’s gone from dead asleep to fully alert in a few seconds, apparently prompted by nothing.

He sits up and looks around. No, not nothing. Bucky has rolled away from him and is crushed against the wall of the hut. He’s curled up so tightly that it must be uncomfortable, and he’s whimpering in his sleep.

Steve has seen Bucky’s nightmares before. After Azzano and during the handful of nights they’ve slept next to each other since Bucharest, he’s occasionally woken up wild-eyed and aggressive. He calms down after he realizes where he is, but for a few seconds he’s ready to rip someone’s throat out. Steve isn’t sure exactly what Bucky dreams about, but from what little he’s managed to get out of him, it sounds like Zola and Pierce feature heavily.

This seems different, though. Bucky’s not thrashing or snarling in his sleep. Steve takes a risk and reaches over. Normally he’d never touch Bucky to wake him when he’s having a bad dream - he likes having his hand attached to his arm, thank you - but right now, it seems like the thing to do.

“Bucky?”

Bucky lets out a quiet sob that twists Steve’s stomach.

“Hey, wake up. You’re okay.” He squeezes his good shoulder. Bucky goes quiet and Steve feels his muscles bunch slightly as he wakes. “Bucky? Wake up.”

He hears Bucky’s breath catch for a moment. His voice is tense and rough with sleep when he speaks. “Steve?”

“Yeah, pal.”

“Steve.”

“What?”

“You’re here.”

“Yep, right where you left me.”

Bucky makes a choked noise and lurches toward him, engulfing him in a desperate hug.

“Holy shit,” Bucky rumbles against his shoulder.

Steve wraps his arms around him and squeezes hard. “You’re okay, you’re in Wakanda.”

“You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“Shit. Fuck.” Bucky sounds awful. “God.”

“Tell me,” Steve asks gently. He normally doesn’t, because he knows Bucky won’t, but.

Bucky’s breathing is ragged and fast, but he’s gradually cooling down. He mumbles into Steve’s shoulder. “You were dead.”

Oh. That’s not the usual nightmare. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. You were dead and no one would tell me how or where or why. Everyone knew what happened except me. You were gone and everyone was trying to keep me from knowing about it.”

Steve’s heart is sagging into his belly. “Buck, I’m sorry.”

“S’my dream. Not your fault.”

“I mean about me being gone so long. I’m really sorry.”

“I know.”

They’re turned awkwardly, but Steve’s not willing to let go and shift to a more comfortable position.

“I’m gonna make sure you always know where I am from now on.”

“That’s not realistic unless I’m with you.”

Steve sighs and pulls back just a little. “Look me in the eye and tell me you want to go out there and kill people again.”

Bucky cringes. Steve feels a little guilty for being so blunt, but it’s not like he’s exaggerating; that's exactly what Bucky would be doing.

“I really, really don’t,” He says emphatically. “But if you get your dumb ass killed when I could have protected you--”

“Sam and Nat and Wanda are protecting me. I know they’re not you, but I swear to god I’m as safe as I can be, Buck.”

“It’s my job.” Bucky’s voice cracks miserably.

“That’s not a job you should have to do. At least not by yourself. It’s an incredibly shitty job.”

Steve sees Bucky swallow hard, steadying his voice. “Not to me,” he says. “It’s not shitty. It’s you.”

Steve’s throat has stopped working, so he lets himself settle back into the bedding, pulling Bucky down with him.

He’s distantly aware that when the morning comes, they’ll pretend this conversation didn’t happen. He forces the thought out of his head and leaves his arms around Bucky’s waist, hoping like hell that if he squeezes him tight enough, some small fraction of the love Steve can’t say out loud will soak into Bucky’s bones and flush out the hurt, and that this time, it won't make him cry.

 

***

 

Steve owes T’Challa a proper visit. Having to be rescued from the border patrol definitely doesn’t count. He always feels silly bothering him, because of course he must be incredibly busy, but T’Challa always seems happy to see him and goes out of his way to invite him to the palace, so Steve figures he’ll take his kindness at face value. As kings go, he’s easy to be around.

He makes his way through the city, drawing curious glances the whole way. He doesn’t bother disguising his posture the way he normally does when he’s trying to hide. There’s little hope of him ever passing through the Golden City unnoticed. By now, the palace guards recognize him and escort him in without much bother.

“Captain! You look well-rested,” T’Challa smiles warmly, “I was a bit concerned about you yesterday.”

Steve smiles back. “I’ll be honest, I think I slept about twelve hours. If that doesn’t perk me up, there’s no hope.”

“How is our friend?”

“He didn’t yell at me half as much as I deserved.”

They enter a long, narrow room that’s nearly all windows that look out over the city. The view is breathtaking. Steve tries to push the obvious Emerald City joke out of his head, but sometimes he really does feel like Dorothy.

“Would you care to explain why you were unable to contact us for so long?” T’Challa asks. “When I said yesterday that I was relieved to see you, I was not just being polite.”

Steve flounders. “Oh, I--” T’Challa was worried? “I’m sorry, sir. I was fine, but we had an incident with our communication systems that made it clear we were unsafe while using them.”

“An incident?”

Steve hears the implied command in T’Challa’s voice. He takes a deep breath.

“Before the Accords, the Avengers used proprietary Stark communication devices. Our earpieces, cell phones, tablets, the intercoms in our buildings and transport, everything - that’s all unique Stark technology. It’s reliable and sturdy, and extremely secure because we’re the only ones who use it. It’s intentionally incompatible with other systems.”

T’Challa nods at him to continue.

“After the Avengers split, my team--” Steve feels stupid calling them that in this context, it makes this situation sound like a baseball game where he’s playing against Tony and the U.S. government. “My team retrieved our old gear and kept using it in the field.”

T’Challa has a look on his face which suggests that he thinks Steve’s a moron, but is tactfully keeping that opinion to himself. “There are some obvious problems with that course of action.”

Steve nods. “Normally I’d agree, but Tony can’t leave something alone just because it’s good enough. By the time we got our old gear back, his equipment was five or six generations ahead of ours. And when Tony makes changes to our comms, he usually makes sure that the new set isn’t compatible with the old one.”

“So that no one else can use your old technology to gain intelligence,” T’Challa finishes.

“Exactly. Each set only works with other equipment of the same generation. We usually destroy the old comms when we get new ones anyway.” Steve leaves out his traditional grumbling about how wasteful that is. “So while there was _some_ risk in using our old equipment, it would have been worse to use something off the shelf. And even leaving aside questions of security, Tony’s gear is still the best.”

T’Challa smiles slightly at that. “Well…”

Steve grins. “Outside Wakanda.”

“There you go.” T’Challa is charming even when he’s feeling smug. Steve would love to learn that skill. “So, this ‘incident’ you refer to?”

“It seems whatever Tony’s using now isn’t incompatible with previous models.”

“I see. So those rumors that you and your team were at the supposed warehouse bombing in Tehran were true.”

“Warehouse bombing, huh? I guess that’s not a complete lie,” Steve sighs. “It wasn’t a warehouse, it was a research facility.”

“I assumed.”

“We were hoping to clear the place quietly and without civilian casualties. Tony heard Sam through the comms just as we were about to enter the facility.” Steve scratches at his neck. “Thankfully he didn’t hear much before we destroyed our equipment and split up.”

“But now you have no means of secure contact, since all your equipment was Stark technology, and you couldn’t risk giving away your location to the authorities by using anything that might draw attention.”

“You got it.” Steve shakes his head. “Though, part of the last two weeks was just me being stupid. I’ve had occasional internet access when passing through cities and I’ve been in touch with the rest of my team, but I didn’t have any actual method of contact for Bucky or anyone here.” He laughs bitterly. “All this fuss because I didn’t have an email address. No use standing in the telegram office if you don’t know who you’re writing.”

T’Challa laughs. “I think you are the only person on earth who would use that metaphor.”

Steve smiles. “I don’t know, I think there might be two of us.”

“Yes,” T’Challa sighs. “You know, maybe Sergeant Barnes didn’t give you too much trouble, but I’m not sure you’ll be so fortunate if my sister finds you.”

“Why not?”

“Mm. She’ll be angry at you for upsetting her favorite test subject.”

Steve chuckles. “Is that what he is?”

“He’s an unusually willing lab rat and has endless patience for listening to explanations he doesn’t understand. Genius enjoys an audience.”

“Well, Bucky makes friends wherever he goes.”

“He does. I hear the children in his village never stop bothering him.”

Steve laughs again, heart fluttering at the thought. “I hope so.” Steve pauses, feeling a wave of gratitude. “If I live another hundred years, I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

T’Challa waves him off. “It was right to help him.”

“You don’t owe us anything.”

“I know. But,” T’Challa pauses, arranging his thoughts. “He’s a gentle person. But he has been forced to spend most of his life committing acts of violence.” T’Challa looks at Steve carefully. “It isn’t a matter of what I owe you. What happened to him is wrong, and it costs me nothing to put it right.”

Steve nods firmly. “Still. Thank you.”

They are both quiet for a moment. “How are things here, otherwise?” Steve finally asks. “You wouldn’t know about everything that happened by looking at the place.”

T’Challa suddenly looks very tired. “Ah. You would know it if you lived here, I’m afraid.” He stares out at the city below the palace. “An unfortunate reality of leadership is that no decision pleases everyone. It’s difficult to solve a problem when you can’t even agree what the problem is.”

Steve feels the corner of his mouth quirk. “So I’ve noticed.” He turns to face T’Challa. “Silly question, but I don’t suppose there’s anything I can help with?”

T’Challa laughs briefly. “I’m sorry, this is rude of me. You’re very kind.”

“Feel free to laugh, it’s a dumb thing to say,” He grins. “In seriousness, I know I don’t have much to offer, but if there’s ever anything I can do for you, please ask.”

“You don’t owe me anything either, Captain.”

“I think we’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” Steve turns back to the city, eyes tracing the dramatic lines of the skyscrapers in the distance. He remembers the shouting shopkeepers and bickering old men in the streets and thinks about the little girl he saw helping Bucky put up his hair, her tiny, gentle fingers carefully tucking loose strands into a bun. “In any case, it isn’t a matter of what I owe you.”

 

***

 

Steve returns to the village a few hours later. Bucky is sitting cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by kids - the human kind, that is. One of them is crying and half in his lap. Bucky’s voice is soft and comes into focus as Steve gets closer.

“-- the hell did you step on? Don’t get me wrong, you’ll live, but Jesus.” Bucky never got the hang of the whole “no swearing around children” thing.

The little boy sobs something Steve can’t understand.

“A thorn, huh?” Bucky frowns gently, examining the boy’s bleeding heel. “That’s funny, because I could swear I told you guys not to go messing around on those scraggly-looking trees for this exact reason. Am I suffering from memory problems again, or did I say that?”

The other kids shift awkwardly and mumble something that sounds like excuses. The boy in Bucky’s lap is clearly the youngest. He can’t be more than five.

“Uh huh.” Bucky looks skeptical and fixes his eye on one of the oldest boys, who looks about twelve. “Ntando, I’m also pretty sure I heard your ma telling you to keep an eye on your brother and quit dragging him into stuff he’s too little to be doing. You wanna tell me I have memory problems _and_ bad ears?” Steve plans on making fun of him later for how much he sounds like his mom. “What am I gonna tell her, huh?”

There’s some panicked mumbling from the kids. Bucky sighs theatrically. “Here’s a thought: when I tell you guys not to do dangerous shit, maybe don’t do it.” He looks up as Steve approaches.

“Looks like I missed all the fun,” Steve says with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh huh. Wanna go grab first aid for me?

Steve nods and goes to dig around in Bucky’s hut. When he gets back, he sees Bucky hunched over the boy’s foot, prodding at the wound.

“It’s not that deep, kiddo. You’ll be okay. Hold still, all right?” He carefully pinches the end of the thorn and eases it out. The boy whimpers a little, but doesn’t scream. “You bring any antiseptic, Steve?”

Steve hands him the tube and watches him gently smear the ointment. He passes him the bandage without being asked.

“There you go, good as new. Go easy on it. I think you can put up with wearing shoes for a couple days.”

The rest of the crowd is furtively moving away, as though they’re hoping Bucky will forget about them if they run off. He shoots a glare at a couple of the older boys, but lets them go. He stands and hoists the boy up onto his hip in one smooth motion that probably would have knocked anyone else on their ass if they tried to do it one-handed. Bucky’s actually spent most of the last 70 years with two usable arms, but you’d think he’d never had a left arm in the first place given how naturally he moves without it.

He turns back to Steve. “Give dinner a stir every once in a while, okay? I made that thing you liked from last time.”

“Taking Achilles back to his ma?”

Bucky huffs out a laugh. “Yep. Be back in a few.” His eyes seem to linger on Steve’s face for just a beat too long before he turns away.

“What’s Achilles?” The boy asks. He’s long since stopped crying.

Steve watches them amble up the footpath toward the cluster of houses on the hill. Bucky’s got his storytelling voice on. He never said so in front of other people, because he didn’t want them to think he was an egghead, but Bucky always liked the Iliad. As they move away their voices fade, blending with the sounds of the water and the breeze tickling the grass.

 

***

 

> **_If ur alive and u know it, clap ur hands_ **

 

Steve’s checking his secret gmail for the first time in a few days when the message from Natasha pops up.

> _Clap clap_
> 
> **_There you are u shit_ **
> 
> **_You scared me_ **
> 
> _Boo_
> 
> _How’s clint?_
> 
> **_I’m sure I don’t know_ **
> 
> _Uh huh. Nate must be getting pretty big_
> 
> **_he’s huge. This is a huge baby. Why does middle america produce these enormous people_ **
> 
> _Probably all the chemical soaked beef_
> 
> **_ur probably right. You are the expert on chemical soaked beef_ **
> 
> _Ha ha. Is a three year old still a baby?_
> 
> **_Idk, probably not this one, he’s massive_ **
> 
> **_Seriously though u ok_ **
> 
> _I’m great. Finally got home a couple days ago_
> 
> **_A couple days??? Jesus steve did you make a pit stop on the moon_ **
> 
> _Just about. I’m being careful_
> 
> **_Careful? You? Sounds fake but ok_ **
> 
> _Now you sound like bucky_
> 
> **_Oh shit_ **
> 
> **_You were off the radar for a long time_ **
> 
> _Yeah. I was surprised he didn’t deck me when I showed up, to be honest_

 

There’s a long pause. Steve sees her typing, then deleting it, then typing again.

> **_I’m not surprised by that at all_ **

 

This feels like one of those times when Natasha says something apparently straightforward which actually contains critically important subtext. As usual, he’s missing it.

> _I mean, I was being dramatic, he wouldn’t actually. He was upset though_
> 
> **_U don’t say_ **
> 
> _I know_

 

There’s another pause.

> **_Did u kiss and make up yet_ **

 

She’s kidding. Still. He wishes.

> _We’re fine, obviously. when I say upset I mean he was yelling at me while hugging me_
> 
> **_Aw, very cute_ **

 

It kind of feels like the end of the conversation. He’s learned that people don’t necessarily say “goodbye” when they’re texting or using some kind of chat function, because those interactions are really less like phone calls and more like passing notes in class. He used to sign all his texts until Natasha informed him that it was unnecessary. He’s about to put the tablet aside when she pipes up again.

> **_Steve_ **
> 
> **_do you have what you want?_ **

 

What a strange question.

> _What do you mean?_
> 
> **_I mean are you happy_ **

 

Steve frowns at the screen. Why are people always asking him stuff like this? He thinks back to that first time he went see Sam at the VA and Sam wanted to know what made Steve happy. It’s not even that Steve doesn’t know how to answer (though he doesn’t), it’s more just that it seems like a silly question. Maybe happiness is a relevant concern to some people. Most people, even. There was a time when he thought he was one of those people. But sustainable contentment is a luxury he’ll never be able to afford. It seems frivolous to keep agonizing over it. That’s probably not the answer she wants, though.

> _Yeah, I’m happy I guess_

 

Natasha vacillates, typing and deleting for a minute or two, which of course only makes Steve more suspicious when all she says is,

> **_Ok_ **

 

What’s that supposed to mean?

> _Ok what?_
> 
> **_Ok, I’m glad you’re happy_ **
> 
> _That’s not what you were going to say._

 

She seems to disappear after that. Ten minutes go by without a response. Typical. Steve’s grouchy by the time she answers.

> **_So you gave up on sharon_ **

 

Oh, for Christ’s sake.

> _Yeah, I told myself it wouldn’t be weird, but... She’s peggy’s niece. It’s weird._
> 
> **_Good_ **
> 
> **_She said something to the same effect lol_ **
> 
> _Oh. That’s a relief, actually_
> 
> _I felt like kind of a heel breaking it off so quickly_
> 
> **_Eh_ **
> 
> **_I think ur ok_ **

 

Steve frowns at the screen again, trying to figure out what’s going on in Natasha’s head.

> _Any particular reason you mention that immediately after asking a cryptic question about whether I’m happy?_
> 
> **_Just thinking_ **
> 
> **_That didn’t work out, so ur free to give it a shot with someone else_ **

 

Oh, God. Not this again.

> _Are you kidding me_
> 
> _I am a fugitive you cannot set me up on blind dates now_
> 
> _Or ever, actually, no more blind dates with every woman you’ve ever met_
> 
> **_Good lord Steve you went on four dates_ **
> 
> **_You’d think I was whoring you out to half of DC the way you bitch about it_ **
> 
> **_And you kept going, so don’t act like I forced you_ **
> 
> _Whatever sure_
> 
> _Regardless, while I appreciate the thought, no thank you_
> 
> **_I wasn’t going to set you up on a date_ **
> 
> _Then what was your point?_

Steve’s going to fly to Iowa just so he can get through a conversation with Nat without any of these long stretches while she figures out how to avoid actually answering his questions.

> _Nat?_
> 
> **_Just promise me you won’t pass up opportunities to be happy bc you think it’s not an option for you_ **
> 
> **_U spend a lot of time convincing yourself that what u want isn’t available or that u don’t deserve it_ **

 

Leave it to Natasha to read his mind from several continents away and then use what she finds to kick him in the stomach. She means well, and he loves her for trying, but some scared and childish part of him that he’s really not proud of wants to throw a tantrum and scream that she’s a liar. He keeps that impulse to himself, though, because she can’t possibly know how unobtainable his wishes are.

> **_Steve?_ **
> 
> _I’m really fine, Nat. don’t worry about me._
> 
> **_Nothing makes me worry about u more than u telling me not to worry_ **
> 
> _Sorry_
> 
> _I have to go, I told bucky’s neighbor I’d help her fix her roof. Take care of yourself and say hi to Clint for me_

 

He’s about to sign off when the tablet pings one more time.

> **_Self-denial isn’t always selfless_ **
> 
> **_Making yourself happy is a nice thing to do for the people who love u_ **
> 
> **_Me for example_ **
> 
> **_or bucky_ **

 

Steve’s eyes burn. She knows; of course she knows. But she only knows half the story.

> _I love you too._
> 
> **_I know_ **
> 
> **_Get out of here, go do something quaint and pastoral_ **

 

***

 

Steve rolls the new set of kimoyo beads between his fingers. Shuri had materialized briefly this morning, handing them over to Steve without fanfare and exchanging a series of incomprehensible inside jokes with Bucky before rushing back to the city. Bucky showed him how to make them work. He said that these were an extended-range set that would let them talk from anywhere in the world. “And only that far, so no leaving the damn planet,” he said, poking Steve in the side. They’d tested them out by calling each other from opposite ends of the village, and Steve felt like a couple of kids playing telephone with two cans and a string.

The cool metal is comforting against his wrist, and his limbs feel lighter now that he can conjure Bucky’s face from anywhere. The world feels smaller and more manageable with a lifeline tying him to his little patch of safety.

Bucky’s just outside finishing the last of the animal chores before bed. Steve has changed the bedding and the sheets no longer smell like Bucky, but they do have that grass-and-sunshine smell that linens get when they dry outside, so it’s not a total loss.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Bucky jostles him awake slipping under the covers, his bare legs brushing against Steve’s. Bucky has turned out the lights and pulled the tapestry over the door, the weak remnants of light from someone else’s dying fire sneaking in around the edges. Steve tries to ask a question, but hears it leave his mouth as a mumbled sigh.

Bucky’s hand ghosts over Steve’s shoulder. “Sorry. Go back to sleep,” He says softly, a smile in his voice.

“Is’okay.” Steve replies. Without thinking, he scoots closer to Bucky and wraps himself around him, the movement as natural as breathing. “Night. Love you.”

His conscious mind replays the last 30 seconds and snaps wide awake. Bucky doesn’t seem to be breathing, and Steve expects him to laugh or awkwardly push him off, but instead, he just freezes for a moment before sinking bonelessly into the fresh sheets, rolling his head toward Steve’s.

Bucky’s voice sounds so small and soft, mumbling hesitant but sincere against Steve’s hair. “I love you too, Stevie.”

They’ve never said it like that before. A hundred thousand times, they’ve said “be careful,” or “let me do that,” or “hey, take your coat, shit-for-brains,” but not once can Steve ever remember either of them just saying the actual words. Hiding his face against Bucky’s shoulder and breathing slowly to try to disperse the knot of heat in his stomach, he realizes that maybe he’d been better off not knowing what he was missing.

He wakes a few hours later to a soft but insistent trill coming from his wrist. Bucky grumbles some creative profanity as Steve answers the call.

“Sir?”

“Captain. I apologize for waking you.”

“S’all right,” Steve says, feeling nostalgic for the kind of phone calls that _don’t_ let the other person see your bed head. “Something wrong?”

“I’m afraid so. When you offered your assistance earlier, I think I may have refused you too soon.”

Steve smiles. “Offer’s still on the table.”

 

***

 

36 hours later, Steve is in Belém on the balcony of a hotel room he’s sure they can’t afford. Natasha hasn’t provided any explanation as to how they’re managing this, but she and the owner seemed to know each other, if the uncomfortable look on his face was any indicator. Steve feels sweat pooling between his shoulder blades every time he walks outside, the air so viscous and wet he thinks he could swim through it. Wanda’s hair is tied into severe french braids to keep it from ballooning around her head.

“Never a good sign when one dude hoards that many uzis,” Sam says, flipping through the dossier. “This guy’s Wakandan? What’s his endgame?”

“He’s a war dog, but he took Killmonger’s side when he tried to dethrone T’Challa. Frankly, with the political climate in Wakanda as it is, that wouldn’t necessarily be the end of the world, but he’s been ignoring orders and actively sabotaging other agents’ missions ever since. We have reason to believe that he somehow became enhanced, and he’s killed three other war dogs who were sent to apprehend him. Three days ago, he sought out a fourth and killed her without provocation.” Steve gestures at Sam’s tablet. “Plus, there’s been collateral damage. And the uzi pile.”

“So T’Challa’s asking us to take care of this guy because he’s enhanced?” Wanda asks. “Why isn’t he going after him himself, if that’s the case?”

“From what I understand, he has much, much bigger fish to fry,” Steve shrugs. “But this guy needs to be brought under control fast. He’ll be expecting more Wakandan agents, though, so hopefully we’ll have the element of surprise.”

Natasha peers over Sam’s shoulder. “Do we want him dead?”

“Absolutely not. Nakia was very clear that we have to bring him in alive.”

“Are they hoping for intelligence?” She frowns.

Steve shakes his head. “No, they’re hoping to avoid political backlash. If he gets killed while we’re trying to catch him, people with an axe to grind will accuse T’Challa of letting outsiders murder Wakandans, which is more or less what people who were against opening the country were afraid of.”

“Right. Catch him quick, be nice about it, don’t get killed. Sounds easy,” Sam nods.

 

***

 

It’s not easy. The target is enhanced, at least as strong and fast as Steve, and somehow immune to Wanda’s powers - her unstoppable bursts of energy and attempts to reach into his mind pass over him like wind against a cliffside, which leaves the team down one member. He’s clever, too. Wakandan war dogs are not amateurs.

Steve backs him into a blind alley thinking he can beat him hand-to-hand. They wear each other down, but they’re evenly matched. Steve misses his shield as the target drives a knee into his abdomen so hard Steve thinks he might cough up his stomach. His ribs feel cracked. He retaliates by knocking the target’s legs out from under him, but he bounces back and sends Steve flying into a safety railing headfirst. By the time Steve is seeing two of everything instead of four, the target has escaped, bolting out of the alley. Steve races after him for a few miles, trying to drive him in circles so Sam and Natasha can narrow in on them.

“Sam!”

“I’m trying, man, but he’s using the crowd as a shield.”

Steve swears. He’s so goddamn sick of urban warfare. He misses being able to load up a remote facility with C4 and level the whole thing in one satisfying explosion without the risk of civilian casualties. Much cleaner. Much more fun. His head is throbbing from the earlier impact and his stomach is begging him to stop and throw up behind a dumpster. “Nat?”

She’s breathing heavily. “Drive him toward the pier.”

Steve doesn’t ask why. Sam banks hard between two buildings and turns back around, flying low over the street so the target sees him. Steve prays they can resolve this before the local police get off their asses, because civilians are definitely aware of what’s happening.

With Sam in front of him and Steve behind, the target vanishes down a side street. Steve takes the next street after that one and meets him on the other end. He’s trying to herd him back toward the water without making it look like that’s what he’s doing, and it’s working, but it’s slow. The target seems to want to be on the opposite side of the city, and they keep having to double back to get control of him again. Gradually, he and Sam force him toward the docks.

Natasha is speaking softly now. “Can you get him onto the ground under the eastern boardwalk?”

“We can try,” Sam grumbles. It’s clear he’s wearing down. He makes flying look easy, but Steve knows the wings take a boggling amount of strength and precision to operate, and this asshole has had the three of them running in circles for nearly two hours without taking a breath. It’s exhausting and annoying. Steve would feel better if he could just punch someone head on instead of doing this stupid Tom and Jerry routine.

“Fuck, did this guy get some of what you’ve got, Cap?”

“I wish,” Steve gasps. “If it was just that, this would be a hell of a lot easier.”

“We gotta get Wanda to a firing range one of these days, is all I’m saying.”

Steve feels a wave of relief when they finally reach the pier. Sam makes like he’s planning on attacking from directly above the target and Steve feigns an attempt to drive him away from the beach and into Sam’s range. Miraculously, it works like a dream, and the target ducks beneath the boardwalk. Sam and Steve follow, with Sam landing hard 20 feet ahead of Steve.

“Keep doing what you’re doing, we’re almost there.” Natasha sounds tired too, although Steve has no idea what she’s been doing.

“You see me stopping?”

“You might see _me_ stopping,” Sam wheezes. “I quit, I’m going back to the VA. You want some educational pamphlets and shitty coffee, come say hi.”

Sam keeps pace at the rear and Steve forces his screaming legs to push ahead, flanking the target so he can’t escape toward the water. Who the fuck knows what this guy could do if they let him swim.

“Fellas? It’s very important that you don’t catch him.”

“Oh, really? You should have said something.” Steve bites back, watching as the target leaves Sam even further behind and weaves through the mooring poles, stretching the distance between himself and Steve. “I would have given him a little more room.”

Suddenly, there’s a small, intense explosion. He hears the target shout as a decaying dock collapses on top of him. Through the dust, he sees Natasha drop into the debris and send a jolt of electricity into the heap, trying to stun him while he’s trapped. Steve skids to a halt beside her just as the target forces a torn beam out of the way, heaving it directly into Steve’s stomach, which apparently hasn’t taken enough of a beating today. He falls back onto the slimy sand, trying to breathe through the smell of rotting fish and sewage as Natasha’s stun gun finally drops the target.

 

***

 

A small reinforced Wakandan aircraft collects the prisoner shortly after. The soldiers who take him away are professional to the point of being stone-faced and tell Steve to anticipate a call from the palace within the hour.

As expected, local law enforcement are on the ground trying to figure out what the hell happened. A few blurry shots of Sam have made it onto twitter and are spreading faster than Natasha can delete them, but she insists that it’s preferable to stay in Belém for a day or two rather than fleeing immediately. Steve notices that the police seem to give their hotel a wide berth and wonders again how the owner and Natasha know one another. His kimoyo beads chime softly and a projection of T’Challa materializes above his wrist as he answers the call.

“Your highness.”

“Impressively fast, Captain. I thought he’d give you more trouble than that.”

Steve barks out a laugh. “Tell that to my ribs. He gave us a run for our money. He’s got some powers I’ve never seen before, first of all.”

“Oh?”

“Resistance to telekinesis and telepathy.”

“How did you learn this?”

“Wanda tried all her tricks on him. Nothing. It was like she was a little kid waving a stick around and shouting ‘abracadabra.’ She can take down buildings and make people see just about anything. Resisting her isn’t a small thing.”

T’Challa’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “No, certainly not. That makes the question of how he gained these abilities somewhat more urgent.”

“Yeah.”

“Is your team badly hurt?”

“No, we’re okay.”

“Are you sure? You look terrible.”

T’Challa is teasing him. It feels good. “I’ll live.”

“You have something unpleasant in your beard.”

“Give me a break, I just caught you a traitor.”

The beads chirp again to indicate a second call. Steve frowns at them. “Your sister’s calling me. That never happens.”

“No?”

“She generally ignores me in favor of Bucky.”

“I’d bet she wants to hassle you about the new equipment, but I have no desire to take your money.”

Steve grins. “Mind if I let you go? I can give you a more thorough briefing this evening.”

“Of course.”

He switches the call over.

“I am ready to hear about the many ways in which my equipment is better than that prehistoric set you got rid of.”

Steve laughs. “The comms are crystal clear. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Good. I had some ideas for improving the handling on the Falcon’s flight suit. And some better light armor.”

“Thank you in advance?”

“Yes, you’re very fortunate to know me. Oh, also, please call your husband. He’s insufferably grumpy today and I cannot do any work.”

“He isn’t-- He’s-- ” His fumbling denial is infinitely more damning than saying nothing would have been. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine, don’t worry. He’s just sulking like a cat that lost a fight.”

“Oh.” Steve’s familiar with that. “He didn’t sleep.”

“If you say so,” she raises an eyebrow. “In any case, please make it stop.”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

***

 

Talking to Bucky and taking a shower has drained the adrenaline from his system, but Steve’s various injuries keep him awake. His ribs are knitting back together quickly, but his stomach and chest are an ugly blotch of purple and green. The gash on his head is still stinging like hell. He has a headache and he feels gritty and dehydrated.

Sam looks just as bad. He’d mostly stayed out of the actual fighting, but the target had been carrying a handgun and he’d grazed Sam’s leg and hit his body armor at an angle - a couple stitches on the leg, a nasty bruise on his side.

They’re flopped next to each other on one of the beds, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and staring at the plastered ceiling, feeling fuzzy and distant.

“Talked to my mom a couple days ago.”

Steve turns his head. “Yeah?”

“Mm. My sister’s pregnant.”

“Hey, that’s great. She wanted another one, right?”

“Yeah. She thinks it’d be good for Alyssa to have some siblings.”

“She _would_ think that,” Steve smiles. “She lucked out.”

“Damn right she did.”

Steve is quiet for a moment. “How old is she now?”

“Alyssa?"

“Yeah.”

“Just turned five. Starting Kindergarten in a few months.”

“God, already?”

“I know, man, she was a baby about two minutes ago.”

“Funny how they do that.”

“Even when you’re not looking.”

Steve swallows hard.

“You’re not stuck here, you know. We could figure something out. Get you back home.”

“Steve.”

“I’m serious, Sam, you don’t have to do this. You’ve never had to do any of this.”

“I know.” He rolls his head against the pillow and looks at Steve critically. “I haven’t had to, but I’ve done it. All right? I chose this.”

“Yeah, but would you choose it again?” Steve asks quietly, shifting onto his side. “When was the last time you were in the same room as your mom?”

“It doesn’t matter what I’d do again. I can’t do it again, that’s not how this works.”

“Sam.”

“Steve.”

Steve frowns at him for a moment.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Why, would you do anything different? It was always gonna go this way. I had an opportunity to do the right thing, you think I shouldn’t have taken it?”

“No, I think I shouldn’t have asked you.”

“Stop it, come on.” Sam looks back at the ceiling and shakes his head. “You are so goddamn annoying. No wonder you and the greasiest murderer in the nursing home are best buddies.”

Steve kicks him, carefully avoiding his wounded leg.

Sam sighs. “I’m here because I choose to be. I know there are ways I could stop, okay, I get that. But I’m not taking them.” He looks back at Steve. “Don’t think I don’t know what it’s costing me, but I’m here. I’ll go if I need to.”

“Okay.” Steve nods.

“You, though.”

“Me?”

Sam gives him another concerned look before shaking his head. Steve considers pressing him, but doesn’t. He’s getting tired of feeling like everyone knows something about him that he doesn’t, and right now he’d prefer not have another conversation about it.

Sam ends up telling him stories about things that happened while Steve was gone. Like most war stories, they’re elaborately funny to hide the smell of blood. Sam is a good storyteller and perfectly happy to carry a conversation by himself. He’s a habitual listener, so people don’t usually think to offer him the floor, assuming he’s the strong and silent type, but the relief is palpable when he gets time to say what’s on his mind. Steve likes the sound of his voice.

“Sounds like I’m missing out.”

“Oh yeah. The fun doesn’t stop,” Sam mumbles. He’s coming down from the adrenaline spike and his words are soft with sleep. “We’re plenty busy when you’re gone.”

Steve feels another queasy bubble of guilt in his stomach. He presses his lips together and avoids Sam’s eyes.

“Sam,” Steve mumbles.

“Hm?”

“Sorry.”

“Hm?”

Steve hums softly. “Sorry you gotta... “ he laughs softly, just a little sadly. “Share me with Bucky now.”

Sam opens his eyes and studies Steve’s face. He smiles. “Dude, I was sharing you with Bucky when we thought he was dead.”

Steve looks back, feels himself flush slightly.

“I know I’m kind of pathetic, in spite of everything.”

Sam looks back at the ceiling. “Loving somebody forever is not pathetic.”

Steve is silent for a long time. “I wish I could get him back for you.”

Sam blinks a few times. His voice is soft. “Yeah. Me too.”

Steve curves toward Sam and presses his forehead to Sam’s shoulder, hearing the faint rush of his breath. They lie there for a long time.

 

***

 

They bounce between cities for three weeks. They’re running out of HYDRA targets - or at least they seem to be; Steve has long since learned not to celebrate that accomplishment too soon - but there’s always another dragon to slay. He misses Bucky, a sharp, sucking pain like a chest wound creeping under his ribs. He calls him every day and tries to convince himself that it’s good enough, that he doesn’t need to go back so often.

Despite their reassurances, he still feels guilty for leaving his team so he can go nap in the sunshine. He knows they can take care of themselves and that they don’t suffer too badly in his absence, but it still feels indulgent to keep disappearing like that.

Guilt isn’t the only thing keeping him from Wakanda, though. Bucky’s easy sweetness is making him feel weaker and shakier with every passing day. No matter what he tells himself, talking to him daily _isn’t_ enough. Being allowed to sleep pressed against him and put a hand on his back as he passes has made Steve greedy. He wouldn’t give up the deliciously deep sleep that enfolds him in Bucky’s bed for anything, but the brush of his feet or the warm kiss of his breath sometimes keeps him lying awake, flushed and hard and wishing he could roll over and put his tongue on Bucky’s throat, run his hands down his stomach, draw out a shivering moan. When he was young, he used to comfort himself with the convenient lie that he would grow out of this someday, but he’s not optimistic or stupid enough to believe that anymore.

The reality is, it’s getting tough to be around Bucky without letting his selfish feelings slip out. He kept it quiet for years, but his self-control is straining under the weight of all the times they’ve lost each other. Every time they’re together, the fearful, superstitious part of his mind begs him not to waste another chance, the force of it growing as Bucky’s smiles and touches seem to grow longer and more tender.

Natasha has noticed; Sam almost certainly has too. Wanda is skilled at hiding what she knows about other people’s feelings, since everyone assumes she’s getting her information by force, but she has to have seen some damning evidence while chasing his nightmares out. Even Shuri has suspicions if her jokes are anything to go by, and she barely knows him. Bucky knows every twitch of his smile and every subtle shift in his eyes. What hope does he have of keeping anything from him?

They land on a defunct ranch in rural Canada and Steve runs out of excuses. His nightmares are worsening, and while he hasn’t had another episode like he did in Lisbon, he can feel himself deteriorating again and knows that probably wasn’t a one-time thing. Natasha has a fracture in her left leg that will take a few weeks to heal, and Sam has declared that he’s going to sleep for a week whether anyone else likes it or not. Wanda has a cold, of all things.

“Not that it isn’t a treat to have you around for this long without interruption, but why are you still here?”

Natasha is stretched out on the wicker loveseat they’ve dragged onto the porch, the bulky boot on her leg taking up everything but the cushion occupied by Steve. The farmhouse is old and creaky, but the smell of aging wood walls and the comfortable decay of the window sills and baseboards makes it feel safe and permanent. It’s an illusion they could all use right now.

“Admiring the scenery,” Steve answers dryly. It’s not a lie; the porch faces a view of the mountains that would make Ansel Adams cry.

“Seriously, you don’t have to stay here and pretend you wouldn’t rather be playing house with Barnes.”

He shrugs, affecting disinterest. “I’m playing house with you guys.”

“You’re allowed to like him better than us.”

“I don’t like him _better_ than you.”

“You like him better than breathing.”

“I like a lot of things better than breathing.”

Natasha gives him a sharp look to let him know that she sees him trying to distract her by saying something concerningly dark, but that his amateurish attempt at emotional manipulation is best saved for Sam.

“Hey, you can waste a perfectly good opportunity to hang out with your favorite person, I’m just saying that seems stupid given that you normally have one foot on the plane the second we finish a job.” She frowns at him, concerned. “Did you guys have a fight or something?”

“What? No, we don’t do that.”

She smiles. “Right, of course you don’t.”

“I just-- Like you said, I’m usually gone as soon as I don’t have any practical need to be here, which is kinda shitty of me.”

“I promise no one is offended.”

“I know.”

“Anyway, he probably misses you too.”

Steve’s heart kicks. “He’s okay.”

“I know he’s okay, but he looks at you like the sun shines out your ass. He’d probably like to have you around.”

He shifts uncomfortably on the lumpy cushion. “Don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

Natasha laughs out loud.

“What?”

“You’re actively avoiding him.”

Steve prickles. “I’m not.”

She shakes her head and nudges his hip with her good foot. “Okay.”

He huffs out a short, frustrated breath. “Why are you so invested in this?”

“In what?” She looks at him curiously.

“Me and… Bucky. Sharon. Everyone.”

He expects her to laugh again and dismiss the question, or to make it a game where she gets him to say more while ultimately telling him nothing, but she just stares for a moment.

“Because I want better for you.” she shrugs.

“Better than?”

“Jesus Steve. I…” She rolls her eyes. “I’m on my own because the only person I ever trusted enough was already married to someone else. You’re alone because you’re a moron who’s convinced himself, in direct contradiction to all available evidence, that he’s a horrible burden to everyone around him.”

He feels himself gaping at her dumbly, but no words seem to form.

“Anyway. I can’t force you to stop making yourself miserable.” She takes a sip of her tea. “But god, one of us should gather those damn rosebuds once in a while.”

 

***

 

His resolve lasts a whole day before he sheepishly calls for a ride. An unmanned aircraft picks him up eight hours later, and Natasha has the good grace not to look smug.

Bucky isn't at home when he arrives, but the kids point Steve toward the pasture over the hill. He’s helping a few farmers repair their fences, and Steve watches them from a distance. One of the other men is telling a story and Bucky keeps chiming in to ask questions. Steve doesn’t remember him being quite so fluent in isiXhosa, but it’s been a while.

He waits for them to finish the section they’re fixing before he starts wandering down the hill and lets out a piercing whistle. Bucky looks up and beams when he spots him, breaking into a jog to meet him halfway.

“What the fuck took you so long?” He’s flushed and grinning, his shaggy hair tied out of his face. He throws his arm around Steve and pulls him in close. His skin is hot and damp and he smells like dust and clean sweat from working in the sun. It’s all Steve can do not to roll them both to the ground so he can press his whole body up against Bucky’s and nuzzle into his sweaty collarbone.

“Canada’s kind of a ways away,” he mumbles, squeezing him tight and smiling so hard his face hurts.

“Excuses, excuses.”

“Hey, I got here, quit bitching.”

One of the men shouts something at Bucky that makes the others laugh. Bucky turns around to shout back and make what Steve assumes is an obscene gesture, which only makes them laugh harder.

“Oh, am I embarrassing you in front of the guys?” Steve teases.

“Nah, Khwezi’s just an asshole.” His cheeks are pink.

“You got stuff to finish?”

“Nothing that can’t wait."

“Don’t stop on my account.”

Bucky glances back. “Just a couple more posts. You hungry? I could eat after.”

“Eh, if you twist my arm.” Bucky’s become a very good cook, which is a convenient skill for someone who burns 8,000 calories a day. “Do you guys want help?”

“Nah, you’ll fuck it up.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” Bucky shoots back, shoving him back up the hill. “Get outta here, go bat your eyelashes at Bongani until she gives you the eggs she owes me.”

“You’re sending me to beg groceries off the mean old lady instead of letting me help you with manual labor? What is this, 1938?”

“It’d be a shame to waste that pretty face on grunt work, sugar,” he purrs, before sharply pinching Steve’s ass.

Steve nearly swallows his tongue. “Fuck you,” he grumbles as Bucky turns around and starts walking back to the fence, honest to god _giggling_. This is going to be so, so much worse than he thought. He watches the familiar sway of Bucky’s hips as he lopes down the hill before turning back, trying to ignore the burn in his cheeks and the pleasant sizzle in his belly.

 

***

 

Steve never knows what time it is when he visits Bucky. He’s got a watch, of course, but he never looks at it. Bucky doesn’t have anything that keeps time except his kimoyo beads, and it doesn’t seem like he checks them much either. He decides when it’s time to do things based off the angle of the sun and what other people are doing. It’s not that demarcation of time doesn’t happen in Wakanda, it’s more that it doesn’t seem to happen to either of them while they’re here. The hours are gentle and stretched in a way that reminds Steve of being ten years old and spending his summer sprawling on fire escapes and scrounging nickels to buy cokes.

They spend long hours talking while they cook, talking while they haul firewood, talking while they take care of the goats, talking while they walk to the market in the next village over, talking while they do absolutely nothing. It’s an unimaginable luxury to listen to Bucky ramble about the last book he read, about how professional baseball isn’t as interesting as it was in 1942, and why that kid up near Bongani’s place is a pain in the ass who’s gonna get himself killed if he doesn’t stop doing crazy shit. Even when they’re both silent, just being around Bucky makes the prickling discomfort of being an outsider everywhere he goes disappear. It’s a relief to slip into the self he becomes when they’re together, like stepping into a worn pair of sneakers after being forced to wear pinching dress shoes all day.

It’s late now. Steve doesn’t know how late exactly, but everyone else’s fires are out for the evening and the stars are clear and sharp above. Though they aren’t actually that far from the Golden City, light from street lamps and signs doesn’t seep into the atmosphere and dull the sky the way the lights of New York do. They’re both sleepy in the warmth of their fire, but Steve doesn’t want to go to bed just yet. He’s enjoying the stillness of the cool night air and the dreamy, speculative bursts of conversation. Bucky is also blinking back sleep, but he doesn’t seem to want to call it a night either.

“What if you woke up tomorrow and you were back to normal?”

“Hm?”

Bucky gestures vaguely. “Not Captain Hot Pants, just regular Steve. No serum, no muscles, just shitty lungs and a bad ear.”

Steve snorts. “I dunno, what about it?”

“What would you do with your life? Hypothetically, I mean.” He flicks a twig into the fire. “I know you’ll keep doing this until somebody kills you, but if you had to stop and do something else, what would you do?”

“Oh,” Steve’s stomach sinks a little. He knows Bucky’s right, there’s not much chance of him ever quitting, but the casual, resigned way he says it makes him feel a bit bleak. “Hell, I dunno,” he shrugs. “People ask me that about once a week, though. You’d think I’d have a good answer made up by now.”

Bucky smiles distantly, gazing into the dying flames. “You could go to art school like you wanted.”

“Aw, come on,” Steve rolls his eyes, trying to keep regret from getting a foothold. “What the hell would I do with that?”

Bucky shrugs, his mouth still curved fondly. “Anything you wanted, Michelangelo.” They’re silent for a few minutes. Cicadas and night birds sing around them.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“What do you want to do?”

Bucky looks at him for a long moment. Steve can’t quite discern the expression, something between affection and sadness, which doesn’t make sense.

“I’m pretty happy here, all things considered. Why, is there something else I oughtta be doing?” His tone is light, but the question sounds serious.

Steve shakes his head. “Nah, if this is working for you, I don’t think you should mess with it.”

They’re quiet again. Steve watches Bucky’s face for a moment, noting a shade of melancholy. “This _is_ working for you, right?”

“Yeah, I think so,” He says with a tentative nod. “I mean, I’m still a fucking head case. But nobody gets everything they want, even if they’re not nuts.”

“Sure.”

“Anyway. They don’t show any signs of kicking me out anytime soon, so I guess I’ll stick around. Make cheese, help with the kids, you know. Be settled. Live a life where I never have to stab anyone.”

“Sounds good.” Steve looks up at the pale haze of the Milky Way. They call it the Straw Road here, after a story about a god who kept dropping hay off the back of his cart as he pulled it across the sky. “Maybe you’ll meet a nice girl.”

There’s a long stretch of silence. Bucky shifts awkwardly. “I don’t know about that.” Steve senses Bucky’s discomfort and knows he’s touched a nerve, but he can’t figure out which one. “Just… what if I didn’t want to do that.”

Steve feels wrongfooted. “I mean, you don’t have to. Just a suggestion.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bucky picks at his nails. “Maybe I want something else.”

“Right.”

“No, I mean.” His voice sounds strained and frustrated. “I don’t think-- No girls. Ever.”

Steve doesn’t know how to interpret Bucky’s vehemence. Once again, he feels himself being asked to read subtext he can’t quite see. “I... Right. You don’t have to do that. Just throwing it out there.” He frowns. “People change. It always seemed like you were a big fan of girls, that’s all.”

“Did it?” Bucky asks, aiming for glib and landing squarely in desperate. “Good, glad I pulled that off.”

Steve thinks his mouth may be hanging open, but he’s not entirely sure. His ears are ringing. There’s no way Bucky meant what that sounded like.

“Buck?”

“What?”

“You know I’m not the brightest guy on the planet, so I’m gonna need clarification.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Christ, Steve.” He takes a shaky breath before speaking so quietly Steve almost doesn’t hear him. “I tried being with girls. Lots of times. And it didn’t take.” He sighs, sounding like he might not inhale again. “I like men.”

Steve feels the universe rearrange itself in the time it takes for him to process what Bucky’s said. His throat squeezes with panic, realizing he’s been silent for a concerning length of time.

“Steve, please say something, you’re killing me.”

“That’s great,” Steve blurts, hating himself immediately after. “I mean. Thank you. For telling me.” That’s what you’re supposed to say, right? “I’m just surprised, is this new, or…?"

Bucky stares incredulously, looking at him like he’s grown a second head. “You know it isn’t, Steve.”

Oh Jesus. They’re going to talk about it.

Steve takes a deep breath, trying to steady his voice so he doesn’t sound as flustered as he feels. “Well, I don't know. That was my idea.” He chokes on the decades-old humiliation lodged in his throat. “And you didn't like it.”

Bucky looks baffled. “What the hell are you talking about?"

“Hey no, it’s okay, obviously you can like fellas and not like me that way. It's all right.” It makes Steve want to curl up and die, because wouldn’t that just be his luck, but of course it’s all right.

“No, really, what the fuck are you saying, Steve? Your idea? I bullied you into some disgusting conversation and then suggested you jerk off in front of me, and you remember that as ‘your idea?’”

Everything suddenly feels very still, as though any movement will tilt the conversation in the wrong direction. “But you-- you didn’t,” Steve stutters. “You didn’t like it,” He repeats dumbly, unsure whether he’s trying to correct Bucky’s faulty memory or desperately prompting him to correct Steve’s.

Bucky continues to stare at Steve like he thinks he’s lost his mind. “Steve, I liked--” He swallows hard. “Believe me, I liked it fine. I wouldn’t have fucking suggested it if--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“I mean, I was the one who escalated the situation.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and looks away. When he looks back at Steve, he's pasted a watery grin over a miserable expression. “Yeah, because that's what you do. There's a difference between not wanting to back down from a challenge and actually wanting a fight.”

The stillness breaks into a deafening roar as Steve realizes how long they’ve been talking past each other. He looks at Bucky’s face, raw with 80 years of _something_ that Steve hasn’t seen until now. God. God, he’s gotten it all wrong.

He forces himself to breathe evenly. “That wasn’t a fight.”

“You know what I mean.”

“And I didn’t do what I did because I didn’t want to lose a game of chicken.”

“Steve--”

“Bucky.”

Bucky is avoiding Steve’s gaze and trying to hide that he’s getting weepy. Steve feels his throat closing too, a bottomless pit growing in his stomach. But he won’t let that feeling drag him down, not right now. This time, he’s going to get it right.

“Bucky,” he whispers again. “I can’t remember not wanting you. Ever.” He takes another wobbly breath. “And if you want me now, or tomorrow, or 50 years from now, you’ve got me. There’s nothing and no one I wouldn’t throw over for you.”

Bucky’s staring at him now, shocked eyes wide and wet.

“If you want to go on like we have been, that’s okay too, because you’re my best friend and that’s never gonna change. But I want you to know that every time I ever touched you, I meant it. I’m sorry I didn’t make sure you knew that.” He swallows around a lump in his throat. “You wanna know what I’d do with my life? I’d spend all of it with you. However you’d let me.”

Bucky ducks his head, face falling into shadow. He sits there for a long, static-filled moment while Steve counts his own breaths. After what feels like a lifetime, he wipes his hand over his face.

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna go inside now.”

“Oh. That’s… okay.”

“And I want you to follow me.”

Steve’s heart stops. “Yeah.”

 

***

 

He steps into the house feeling clumsy and loud, waiting for Bucky to change his mind or punch him in the shoulder and announce that he was just kidding, Stevie, but I really had you going there, didn’t I?

But he doesn’t do any of that. Bucky is standing in the middle of the room, wide-eyed and staring at Steve with naked hunger. Steve is familiar with people looking at him like he’s a piece of meat - he feels just as self-conscious at the beach as he did when he was 15, but now it’s because he gets tired of drunk ladies hooting at him and people walking into each other because they’re too busy staring at his chest to watch where they’re going. This is different, though. Bucky’s gaze slides over him like a physical touch that makes him want to peel off every scrap of clothing and bask in the attention.

He clasps the door shut and moves forward, keeping his gaze pinned to Bucky’s eyes as he steps into his space.

Bucky reaches up and presses the tips of his fingers to Steve’s lips. “Honey,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and devastated.

Steve lets himself melt into the word, savoring the absence of irony. “Yeah?”

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“If it’s anything like what you put me through, I’m sorry,” he jokes weakly.

Bucky lets his fingers slide around the back of Steve’s neck, carding them through the soft, short hair at the nape. He can’t hold still any longer. He slips his hands under Bucky’s shirt to rest them against the bare skin of his waist and pull him close. He finally, finally presses a kiss to Bucky’s lips.

He’s slightly shocked at how intensely he responds, swallowing Bucky’s rumbling moan and squeezing him tighter when he feels his whole body shudder. Bucky presses himself against Steve’s chest, still petting his neck and kissing the hell out of him.

Steve has seen Bucky kiss girls a few times before. He always tried not to watch too closely, because the way they sighed and went limp in his arms made it impossible for Steve to think about anything but how badly he wanted to be in their place. Bucky is exactly as good at this as Steve knew he would be, and he hears himself make an embarrassing noise as he tries to keep up, biting gently at Bucky’s bottom lip.

Bucky groans and rolls his hips forward at that and-- oh. Oh.

“Sorry.” Bucky pulls away slightly. His face is flushed in the low light. Steve feels dizzy.

“Huh?”

“Don’t mean to be pushy. ‘S just. Been a while.”

“Yeah, me too,” Steve smiles, pulling him in again, stomach doing backflips, feeling like they can’t be touching enough.

“Probably a hell of a lot longer for me, though,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve stares for a moment before grasping what he’s saying. “Oh.”

He shrugs, his hand resting on the Steve’s shoulder, thumb stroking his neck. A vaguely bitter smile crosses his face. “Twitchy fuckup, remember?”

“Stop it,” Steve scolds, knocking his forehead softly against Bucky’s. “Not since 1945, huh?”

“‘44, actually.”

Steve’s eyebrows jump for a moment before he shakes his head. “No, remember, there was that girl in Sicily.” Bucky turns his head, pressing his face into Steve’s neck.

“The one I made up?”

“Oh.” Steve’s hands roam under Bucky’s shirt, smoothing up and down the hot skin of his back. “Buck?”

“Yeah?” He slurs against Steve’s collarbone. He’s always loved being touched like this.

“How many of the girls you told me about were real?

Bucky stiffens slightly.

“Come on, I’m just curious, honey.” The endearment feels smooth and perfect rolling from his lips, like it’s been waiting there forever.

“None, after basic.”

“ _None?_ ”

“I told you, girls didn’t stick.”

“Yeah, but,” he pulls back to look at Bucky’s face again. “Why’d you lie?”

Bucky looks at him like he’s an idiot. “You’re right, that was stupid of me. What guy wouldn’t tell his best pal, who he’s shared an apartment and a _bed_ with for half his life, and who has recently become his CO, that he’s done with women now because, surprise! He’s a pansy? No way that could ever go wrong.”

“You’re not just any guy. And I’m not just any best pal.”

“Yeah,” Bucky’s eyes soften again. “Yeah, no shit.”

They fall back into kissing each other, feeling sluggish and indulgent. Steve starts biting softly at Bucky’s neck and ears, making him squirm and whine Steve’s name. By the time they actually make it into bed, they’re both gasping for breath and painfully hard. Steve likes necking, probably more than most people, but he can’t remember the last time it got him this worked up.

He unbuttons Bucky’s shirt, slow and clumsy. Bucky is lying underneath him, arching up to chase his mouth every time he tries to pull away and focus on what he’s doing. His hand has migrated from Steve’s neck all the way down to the small of his back. He suddenly laughs.

“What?” Steve whispers against his mouth.

“There’s somethin’ I’ve always wanted to do.”

“Oh yeah?” He smiles. “What’s that?”

Bucky grins too sweetly, the look he always used to get right before he started trouble. Suddenly, he slides his hand under the waistband of Steve’s pants and into his underwear, gripping his ass hard and pulling his hips flush against his own, trapping him between his thighs. Steve groans, and Bucky sighs with satisfaction.

“Jesus. You have any idea how nice your ass is?” He’s still squeezing and rubbing at the muscle, and Steve doesn’t trust his ability to form a meaningful sentence, so he just moans and rolls his hips. Bucky’s voice hitches at the friction. “Better get used to this, sweetheart. I don’t think I’ll be able to resist temptation anymore.”

“Okay,” Steve mumbles helplessly.

He finally manages to wrestle Bucky out of his shirt, running his hands over his chest and stomach as Bucky starts tugging insistently at the hem of Steve’s t-shirt. He takes the hint and peels it off. Bucky immediately sits up and wraps his legs around Steve’s hips to keep them close. He and presses hard, biting kisses along Steve’s bare shoulders and chest. He leans down to tease a nipple with his teeth and Steve gasps sharply.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he grabs Bucky’s hair and tugs him away, whining urgently and pressing the heel of his hand against his dick to keep from coming. “Oh god, at least let me get out of my pants first. Fuck.”

Bucky looks absolutely wrecked. He catches his breath at the end of a desperate laugh. “You’re one to talk. You yank my hair like that again and that’ll be all she wrote.”

Steve’s chest suddenly feels tight, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude and pleasure. He cups Bucky’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing through his beard. Of course Bucky likes his hair pulled. The thought shouldn’t make him feel sappy and affectionate, but that’s apparently the only reaction his lust-drunk brain can produce at the moment.

“Bucky. Buck.” He swallows. “Honey.”

“I know, baby.”

They eventually do manage to fumble their way out of their pants. Steve lands on his back with Bucky half on top of him.

“I’m not… I dunno if I’m up for anything fancy right now,” Bucky says quietly.

Steve smiles. “Fancy?”

“You know,” He shrugs, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed and burying his face in Steve’s shoulder again.

“Okay,” Steve murmurs. His body feels loose and lit up, alive and whole in a way that shouldn’t seem so alien. They’re lying tangled together, completely bare and touching from head to toe. Steve runs the tips of his fingers along the underside of Bucky’s cock, drawing out a sigh. “That not-fancy enough?”

“Uh huh,” he groans, thrusting reflexively against Steve’s palm. He reaches down and wraps his fingers around Steve’s dick and moves in slow, firm strokes. Steve’s eyes cross for a moment before he mimics the motion. Bucky’s body tenses and loosens in waves and he whines, his warm breath heaving against Steve’s chest. Steve is struggling to keep his eyes open and focused, not wanting to miss a moment of Bucky’s glassy, dazed expression. He’s aching and hot from his chest to his knees, aware of nothing but his own desperation and Bucky’s quiet begging.

He runs his free hand through Bucky’s hair, getting a good grip at the back of his head. “Come on,” he slurs. “Come on, sweetheart.” He tugs, slow but hard, tilting Bucky’s head back and curving down to kiss him again.

Bucky lets out a pleading cry and shudders hard against Steve’s side as he comes. Seemingly on instinct, he grips Steve’s cock tighter and picks up the pace just slightly, and Steve is suddenly drowning and trembling all over, following him over the edge.

Time seems to turn sideways. Steve feels fuzzy and euphoric, and the sound of their heaving breath seems distant and unreal.

“God,” Bucky gasps. “Jesus. Shit.”

Steve hears himself choke out a laugh. “Yeah.”

“I love you. God Steve.” Bucky starts laughing weakly too. “I know it doesn’t count when you say it right after you fuck, but I really…” he swallows hard, still looking hazy and unsteady. “I really fucking love you.”

Steve can’t stop smiling. He knows he probably looks a little unhinged. “Nah, it counts. I’ve decided.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nuzzles Bucky’s hair, pressing his lips to his ear. “I really fucking love you too,” he whispers.

 

***

 

It’s raining when he wakes, thin gray light washing into the house as Bucky parts the curtain and steps inside. His hair is wet and his boots are muddy.

Steve stretches and sighs, scooting over hopefully. “Get back in here.”

“I’m all wet, punk.”

“Only your clothes.”

“I guess.”

“Maybe don’t bringing your clothes, smart guy.”

Bucky grins and rolls his eyes, already shuffling off the robe he’d thrown on to go milk the goats. He strips and slides back under the covers. His skin feels cool and damp with residual rain and he smells like earth.

Steve gently presses his fingers to a fresh bruise on Bucky’s arm. “Evie get you again?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Fucking shithead. You’d think I’m not the one responsible for her continued goddamn well-being.” All the goats are grumpy, but the smallest one earned herself the name “Evil” for going above and beyond the call of duty. They gave her a cute nickname because the little girl next door insisted that her real name was too mean, but given how often she intentionally injures Bucky while he’s trying to take care of her, she really doesn’t deserve the courtesy.

Steve pulls Bucky closer and presses his lips to the bruise.

“Sap,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve smiles and kisses him on the lips, unspeakably happy and hedonistic with Bucky bare and and pliant against his chest. It’s heaven.

“You having fun kissing the guy who smells like goats?”

“Uh huh.” Steve moves down to give his throat some attention, feeling reckless and powerful when he hears Bucky’s breath catch. “You don’t smell like goats. You smell good.” He sucks a bruise into the tender spot where his neck meets his shoulder and Bucky makes a sound like he’s been punched.

Bucky groans and presses his hard dick against Steve’s. “Hope you’re happy, punk.”

Steve grins again, looking pleased with himself. “Hm?”

“Smug little shit.” He gives Steve a hard shove and flips them over, straddling his hips and kissing him roughly. He slides down and begins licking and biting at Steve’s chest with no warning. Steve squirms and lets out a surprised cry, heart kicking at the sudden jolt of sensation.

Bucky pulls away and looks at him, trying to look innocent and failing. “Something on your mind?”

Steve swears, reflexively arching under Bucky’s ass. “Take a guess.”

“I dunno doll, I’m not a mind reader,” he says mildly, as though he’s not meeting Steve’s uncoordinated thrusts with slow rolls of his hips, breath stuttering.

“I think… uh,” Steve tries to force his blurry brain to produce words, “You might be more talented than you think.”

Bucky’s face breaks into a cheeky smile. “Yeah?”

“Uh huh.” Steve grabs Bucky’s ass with both hands and presses them closer together. Bucky lets out a shaky moan.

“You might be right.” He leans back down, bracing himself and letting his lips brush against Steve’s ear. “My psychic powers are telling me,” he murmurs, “that you’ll make some real interesting noises if I…” He ducks down and sucks hard on one of Steve’s nipples. Steve whines too loudly before clapping a hand over his own mouth.

“Hey look, I was right.” He moves to the other nipple, and Steve is too busy trying not to let the whole village know what they’re doing to say anything smart in response. He bites his lip to keep quiet and digs his thumbs into Bucky’s hips, grinding up against him and letting himself dismiss everything but the aching, prickling sweetness in his chest and groin. The world shrinks and time goes funny again. The nip of Bucky’s teeth and the rasp of his beard is so good it’s making him feel almost panicky, riding the edge of too much. He can’t decide whether he wants to arch up into Bucky’s mouth or beg for mercy and push him away. They’ve barely done anything, and he has no business being this close to coming, but holding himself back is making him feel desperate and overstimulated. He’s past the point of shame anyway.

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky,” He whispers, throat tight and voice weak, his breath stolen. “Oh my god, you’re… I’m... _Bucky--_ ”

Bucky hums with encouragement and does something with his teeth that will probably leave a bruise for a minute or two, and Steve comes against his stomach, sharp and intense. He has no idea if he managed to keep quiet; his nerves are lit up and awash in a sugary warmth that makes it impossible to perceive anything accurately.

Bucky is gently kissing his collarbone when his head clears a few minutes later, still moving his hips unconsciously against Steve’s. He’s being patient, contenting himself with crushing his whole body against Steve’s and pressing his mouth to anything in reach. Steve makes him wait just a little longer, enjoying the secondhand burn of his desperation and quietly making a decision.

He rolls them over so that Bucky is on his back and kisses him deeply. “Seems like you might need something.”

Bucky whines softly. “Please.” Oh, he’s good like this.

“Okay, honey,” he murmurs. “Stay put.”

Bucky hums, keeping his hand buried in Steve’s hair as he moves down to his chest, gasping when Steve begins kissing down his stomach. Steve nibbles at the spot below his navel and Bucky makes a shocked noise when he realizes what he’s doing. Steve kisses a little bit lower to make his point.

“Oh God,” Bucky rasps. “Really?”

“Mmm. That okay?”

“Holy shit,” Steve can feel tension building in Bucky’s thighs. “Yes. Yes please.” He takes a shaky breath. “Please.”

Steve’s heart flutters nervously for a moment, afraid of screwing up. This is what he gets for being too chicken to try it sooner on somebody else - now he’s thirty-mumble years old and getting intimidated by the prospect of having a cock in his mouth. This isn’t rocket science.

He pauses, steadying himself and taking a deep breath. Bucky lets out a barely-audible whine, quietly begging to be touched. The knot in Steve’s chest eases and he feels himself smile for a moment before sliding his lips over Bucky’s cock.

Bucky’s whole body goes tight and a sharp breath rushes from his lips.

“Steve, oh my God, _fuck_.”

Steve hums, trying to find a good rhythm and wondering whether he’s underestimated the size of Bucky’s dick or overestimated the size of his own mouth. In any case, Bucky is way too far gone to care about his technique, moaning desperately and struggling to keep his hips pinned to the bed. Steve closes his eyes and goes by instinct, letting himself feel cocky and possessive as Bucky’s constant stream of praise and profanity grows louder and less coherent.

Suddenly, Bucky is pulling at Steve’s hair and urgently repeating his name, barely keeping himself from thrusting. Some distant voice of reason in Steve’s head suggests that maybe he doesn’t _need_ to let Bucky go off in his mouth on the first try, but Steve hasn’t listened to that voice in the past and doesn’t plan to start now.

Bucky turns to muffle his groans in a pillow as he comes, fist bunching tight in the sheets. Steve runs his hand over Bucky’s abdomen and feels the muscle contract and release, breathing slowly and closing his throat to keep from choking. He decides that he doesn’t actually mind the taste, although the way it feels in his mouth might be a little gross. The voice of reason is rolling its eyes at him as he decides to swallow anyway.

He crawls up next to Bucky and settles down into the bedding, feeling warm and accomplished. Bucky looks shell-shocked and glassy, and Steve’s stomach twists when he realizes that it’s the same look he had the first time Steve touched him. Steve slides over to press a kiss to his temple, grateful as hell that they’ve lived long enough to stop misreading each other.

“You okay?” He asks softly.

“Huh?” Bucky turns his head, looking starry-eyed, chest still heaving.

Steve smiles. “Eagle to Blue Jay, do you copy?”

Bucky grins back. “Yeah, yeah, I copy.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you just did that.”

Steve sighs and kisses his ear. “I have,” he mumbles, “Many more plans.”

Bucky looks like a kid on Christmas. “Oh God. They’re probably gonna have to wait until my brain gets back on the line, sweetheart.”

“Well, I’m a patient man.”

Bucky snorts. “Since when?”

Steve looks at him seriously, brushing a lock of hair from his cheek. “Hey, I waited 84 years for this.”

Bucky’s smile goes sweet and sincere as the weight of everything they forgot to say falls on them, not like a landslide or a guillotine, but like a thick down quilt. “Yeah. Me too.”

Steve mirrors Bucky’s expression. “So whaddya think, was it worth it?”

The corner of his mouth quirks slightly. “Eh, you know. It’s all right.”

Steve snickers and bites his neck just shy of too hard. “Jerk.” Bucky pinches his ass in retaliation and they dissolve into laughter, and then into kisses, and then into each other.

 

***

 

Steve is hauling firewood when his phone buzzes. It’s not particularly heavy work for him, but he’s been doing it for an hour or two and it’s a hot, sunny day, so his muscles feel pleasantly tired. Yesterday, Bucky had traced his fingers over Steve’s face with a smile when he noticed his freckles coming in.

He opens a text from Sam. It’s a video of himself in his sister’s kitchen, singing along to the Temptations with Alyssa. Steve feels himself smiling foolishly, wants to reach through the screen and wrap his arms around both of them.

> _Not bad. Choreography could use some work_

 

He nearly puts the phone back in his pocket before it buzzes again.

> **_how the hell would you know_ **
> 
> _Hey, I’m a professional, remember?_
> 
> **_maybe you can stand in the right spot while your go go girls do all the work_ **
> 
> **_I have it on good authority your dancing is a disaster_ **
> 
> _?_
> 
> **_Your boy is a tattletale_ **

 

He huffs out a surprised laugh.

> _Since when do you guys talk when I’m not forcing you to?_
> 
> **_He’s not so bad when he isn’t glaring at me like I’m gonna steal his man_ **

 

Steve wants to bang his head against a wall. Of course.

> _Oh_
> 
> _About that_
> 
> **_Yes?_ **
> 
> _:)_
> 
> **_Hell yeah get it old man_ **
> 
> **_Spare me the details though_ **
> 
> **_i’m set for life on traumatizing mental images_ **

 

Steve sends him several poop emojis.

> _Tell Alyssa I think she’s got a future in show business_
> 
> **_Maybe if she’s got time between being a scientist, bus driver, and painter_ **
> 
> **_She’s got a lot of plans_ **
> 
> _Hey, I have faith in her abilities_
> 
> **_Honestly? Me too_ **

 

He hears a brassy wolf whistle cut through the air. “God damn, who’s that good-lookin’ fella in my yard?”

Steve grins and puts his phone away. “Hey, Buck.” Hello, butterflies.

“Hey, handsome.” He makes a show of looking Steve up and down as he ambles toward him, hips swaying.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “I’m sweaty and gross, let’s not go overboard.”

“Sweaty and gross is a good look on you,” he purrs, resting his palm on Steve’s chest.

Steve suppresses a smile. “Did you come back early just to fool around?”

“What?” Bucky tries to look innocent. Unbelievable. “No, we were finished.”

“Sure.”

“Not that that would be a bad reason.”

“Uh huh.”

“If that _had_ been what I was doing, I gotta say, it would have been a hell of an idea.”

“Mm. Shame that wasn’t what you were doing.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and kisses him, deep and insistent. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and inviting against Steve’s lips. “Sure is.” He pulls away and struts toward the house, giving Steve a long look over his shoulder before he steps inside. Steve laughs to himself, shakes his head, and follows.

When it comes down to it, this is what Steve loves the most. He always thought that what made the two of them special was that they didn’t have to talk, didn’t have to pick through the tangled muck of their own thoughts and try to explain them, always losing something in translation. He thought that they could look at each other and know, without the agony of description, what the other one was thinking. He reaches for Bucky and kisses him, slow and undemanding, and knows that for the first time in their lives, he’s right.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Elton John's "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues," because I'm very corny. This story began as a self-indulgent narration of my own headcanons and somehow turned into 23k words of actual story. None of it would have happened without my dear friend Lu, who was unfailingly supportive and kind enough to beta for me (she's stillwaterseas on Tumblr and phoenixflight on AO3 - you should read her work too!). This is my first formal attempt at writing fiction in about a million years, so thank you for reading it. If you enjoyed this story enough to leave kudos or a comment, thank you even harder, and if I had a first born, it would be yours.
> 
> This fic is rebloggable/retweetable on [Tumblr](https://thedoubteriswise.tumblr.com/post/176970358999/time-on-my-hands-could-be-time-spent-with-you), [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/75909), and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/thedoubteriswi1/status/1078121758828285953).


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